It Was A Hot Humid Moist August Morning Poem by James McLain

It's not every morning where the juice's flow
from every where.
Where even green leaves
shouldn't be freed from each other.
Here where the sap
sticky sap ran the length of the tree.
A thickness to the air
moist air being sucked in and out by
laboring lungs once stout.
These are the morning's where noon
stands still
and what is thinly worn sticks
to the once thin bark.
Mushrooms try to poke up past their
broken backs
strangely flat misshapen heads
that moistly are.
Pale moonlight where around one bush
a hand moves past delight.