Under the heat, the sun scorches
Its beams onto my back,
Jolting me to the moments
When I’d rather have winter.
Sitting on grass, legs bare
Leaves and blades of green prick
Onto my skin like small needles.
The pineapple in my hand melts its
Sweet, sticky tar.
But when the north wind blows,
And the sunlight turns at an angle
Just right – where the shadows of the trees
Embrace me and shelter me from
Heat, exhaustion, dehydration,
The umbrella of leaves fluttering –
Suddenly the sun is not so sharp,
The grass not so biting
And my pineapple bite is sweet and refreshing.