August Heat
By Phyllis Beebe
On
August days when the sun was hot
Gramma's
cellar was a
lovely spot.
The floor was earth, the walls
were stone:
Cool and quiet, I'd sit
alone
Smelling the scent of pungent
dill
From the pickle crock I'd helped
to fill.
Listening to footsteps up over
head
Knowing Grampa's or Gramma's
tread.
Hugging myself in my cool
retreat
Safe from the deepest August
heat.