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SANIBEL HEAT AND ANSEL ADAMS
a free-verse poem

by Nancy McDowell
8-26-09

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Taking a last deep breath
of the cool circulating air,
I open the car door and step out
into the Sanibel heat.

Palpable and cloying, it hits me:
steamy fingers clawing little troughs of sweat
along forehead, cheeks, and back;
the wetness sticky on my skin
as it trickles and evaporates.

I think of the Ansel Adams photographs on my wall:

Cathedral Spires with its snowy peaks
stretching upward like fingers grasping at heaven;

El Capitan partly blotted out by tendrils of snow
that smoke and curl as if coughed up by a Cracker house chimney.

Overheated cells cool
as light and shadow play in my mind;
blowing snow fills the furrows
of sweat on my back,
creating tiny snow drifts in their place.

The pavement is buckled and baked
by too many summers,
begging moisture and shade beneath my feet;
but I'm untouched by the Sanibel heat.

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