Coffee Break

I pour myself a cup of afternoon habit,
though it's too hot both outside and in.
Ninety three degrees under the generous hydrangea,
with its petals blushed early.
An orange cat sprawls, just visible beneath
the bush's drooping limbs.  This year September
in Paradise is repulsively hot, reminding me
of the day we drove our late summer vacation van
through downtown Skowhegan
where the bank's thermometer read ninety-nine.
We bought a few cheap fans to cool the cabin
where normally we built fires against the morning shivers.
We were just starting to feel cheated out of
"the way life should be," when one night the temperature
tobogganed. Suddenly we were "under wool"--
a husband-coin we've spent in our family ever since--
meaning we were snuggled in blankets. Outside
in the crisp-apple air the starry, starry sky
poured over the reflecting lake and over the bleached fields
and over the silhouette of pines, air so clear
you could almost see the loon laments.

This oppressive heat takes me further back--
the summer when my clothing sheathed
my pumpkin belly. I awaited our equinox baby
in the stillness of late Pennsylvania summer,
when farmers judged the days of harvest for the last corn.
My hairdresser told me of spending the weekend
with her mom and aunt, cutting kernels from the ears
and freezing over a hundred bags. I could just imagine
sweat pouring from the women in that kitchen
as they worked, and the satisfaction as they closed
the freezer door and poured themselves
a cup of coffee.