Hot Hot Hot

Hot, Hot, Hot

oHot, hot, hot, the sun beats upon the earth

Drawing moisture from the hardened ground.

But not a drop of moisture can be found

Not a breath of joy, not a hint of mirth.

We long for Autumn rains to ease our pain,

We long for bold Winter’s cold embrace,

We long for the sight of spring’s joyful face,

We long for the seasons to change again.

There’s often a parable to be clearly read

In the rising of the sun and the setting of the moon,

But not every parable sings a pretty tune.

Some parables speak of when our life has fled.

“It is Hotter than hell,” someone said to me;
“Not really I replied, just you wait and see.”