by C E Goulden

Created on: May 14, 2008

"Synesthesia Form - Heat"

Everything but, the society of this village town shone with the sun's colorless, but, pure white shine.
Villagers were drawn indoors; hidden behind closed curtains; void of softened flesh tones more pale with blush.
Oh! The heat and mugginess was reviled. A pale yellow haze began to rise off a deeper, shaded horizon.
Even a thick, rancid odor wafted from compost. Nearby, bee's buzzed puffy gold with black stripes to tiny,

little glitters of yellow hues that looked like sparks flash to mock cinnamon spice; and this seemingly imitated
most people in their complexity. Even dogs, prone to bark, lie silent in shadows under canopy of green.
Where songbirds usually sing, now they pose as stony sculptures; as icons of pin-up decoupages; their buff
as matte mod podge.

Memories come flooding back in these few seconds; of a time when fans would whirr, while, naps under an old,
oak tree would bring us closer to the savor of summertime lemonade; butter cookies, sometimes drenched in
relish of lemon curd. I recall times when energy was depleted but, life was sluggish in phases, relative to season
and arrangement of time; when supper was cold cuts and chilled salads; bright red tomatoes with frilly, green
bordered cucumber slices. Then come evening, lights were dimmed, or not very important, as the shades
that were drawn were now lifted. Chirps of crickets, along with bullfrog songs, sang outside a gapped window.
Lulls of moonlight interrupted inhibition of uncovered skin; stir touched and clearly heat's worry was then
far-flung.

The road I'm walking on warms the soles of my sandals. My hair loosens up from clamminess of head's dome,
where, the sun bears down in streams of yellow brightness. I thirst for a sip of dripping water and wish for a slice
of red, succulent watermelon. I begin rush to hurry on home; to mimic what cooler villagers achieve;
And my plod downhill comes easier. Slant is kind to the arch and where twists and curves change direction,
my course bears in a straight line. And once under the arms of mimosa's divided leaves, nearer to ground covers;
(apparently annoyed by the warmth) I begin to pray for cooler days. The singe to green is offensive as the
flowers that are fainting on the face of each, wear dulled sheathe to their once, animated spread.

When will the rain come to raise this area more lively? When will the winds fade the waves of sun's
confounding fever? I pray mightily for mercy to lend a hard tug to heaven's shade. To draw down the power of
charm to sun-drenched hues. From heat's strict demands, (the taskmaster of Hades) I begin to realize
nature will have its way; the skill comes in being as a Roman in Rome. I adapt well and blend where the flow
shows me into within, my house, away from a village that shuts down for the day; And where, an iced mocha,
bears the tan of sunset's sequel of a summery, smoggy haze. Yet, this sequel with each refreshing,
cool swallow brings the daytime close quicker.

Now, promises of fresh treaty, like a truce between two standards comes by a chocolate dusk. The evening
hours have arrived bringing redemption. The moon slides up, arched; more domed to signify by crown of promise
and by a farmer's belief, that when the crescent is as a cap, the rain will generously pour down. I believe this earth
is ready. I believe in the farmer, of this village, and of his ancient trust. I believe more that God has heard my prayer
as the reddened sky flashes with likeness of angel's scythes, bringing forth potent, bolts of lightening.
I pray He judges straight away, the measure of austerity and lends leniency. It's now that I recognize, it is by
sun's severe heat that, the silver is tarnished; sharing more of a slant to set of scales.

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