On the Veranda

When summer sun beat down outside
In brassy, breathless glare,
No clouds appeared to mute the blue,
No breezes stirred the air.
Then children tired of jumping rope
Or playing in the sand;
Too hot, it seemed, for riding bikes
When metal burned the hand.
'Twas then our mother called to us
To come up in the shade,
And there for many hours at games
Of school or store we played.
It seemed those days that everything
Grew silent from the heat,
Except the bees that gently buzzed
In nearby fields of wheat.
And as the day was slowing own,
Relaxing its fast pace,
Life on the wide veranda
Was the best of any place.

~ Inez Baker