Underneath the cotton blanket
She sweats in sultry air dreaming,
How sweet Napa Valley grapes would taste
This time of year when heavy June clouds
Seal the edges of sky like a thick crust
Of baked apple pie steaming on the sill.
Flies collide against the frayed screen
Bathing in the flow of cool air streaming Through the vent
of her napping kitchen
Where she reads a Steinbeck novel
Absorbed in artificial breeze
Half aware upon a pair of wings.
The soft swan flapping begins to buzz
Like a miniature hummingbird
Probing into her honey hair
And dodging her clumsy hand
Which lazily sways like an empty swing
Peeling and baking in the heat.