First Day of August

Yeah, it's hot. Yeah, it's humid. Yeah, it's August in Kansas. As in "...I'm as corny as ...yada yada." There IS a lotta corn out there, by the way.

So how 'bout a cool, ice-clinky, glass of ice tea, or maybe a gin and tonic, and this lime-cool poem by Neruda:

"In Praise of Ironing"

Poetry is pure white.
It emerges from water covered in drops,
is wrinkled, all in a heap.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
has to be ironed out, the sea's whiteness;
and the hands keep moving, moving,
the holy surfaces are smoothed out,
and that is how things are accomplished.
Every day, hands are creating the world,
fire is married to steel,
and canvas, linen, and cotton come back
from skirmishings of the laundries,
and out of light a dove is born--
pure innocence returns out of the swirl.

Pablo Neruda, from Plenos Poderes