The First Hot Day
May 19 2009


Frost, last night.
Today, a scorcher,
the sky as clear as optical glass
refracting only blue —
the ozone, peeled back,
the sun
pouring through
unfiltered.

We emerge from winter
pale, sluggish,
unused to this molten heat
to light, that could ionize matter —
searing our outlines to asphalt,
like body-shadows
left by a nuclear blast.
Our eyes water, blinking back blindness.
We take our shirts off,
turning red as lobsters
boiled alive.
The first hot day, and we can’t help ourselves
soaking it up.

Cloudless tonight,
low-lying frost.
The first moths
fortified with anti-freeze.
And crocuses, about to erupt
like unaccustomed spring
— brilliant,
but brief.



This poem needs no explanation: a classic lyric poem, a personal reflection inspired by nature.

It was a hard winter, and now a late spring. On a cold evening, weeks ago, I was surprised to see the ooze of a hardy moth on the windshield -- the first of the season. Despite the cold, the same old crocuses I've watched for years have persisted, sending-up bright green shoots in a sea of brown. Some have even flowered. Last night there was frost. Today, it was chilly, overcast. But tomorrow, the forecast calls for the mid-20's, under clear blue skies.

The seasons transition quickly here. But at the same time, they're indecisive, whip-sawing us from heat to cold and back again. So I wanted to convey that with extreme language and strong contrasts.

I try to avoid purely descriptive poems. They have no soul, no compelling reason for the reader to re-visit them. They are like a photograph of landscape without a human subject: bland; no drama; nothing to draw in the viewer. So writing this in the first person was essential. And also essential was creating that instant identification with the reader: how we all get impatient, push the season, go overboard ...on the first hot day.