Summer in the Desert

our first so we didn’t know
there’s no hiding from the August sun
as I scorch my hand on the knob
of the French doors and I swear
I hear a sizzle as the plastic pool chair
melts and oozes like grilled cheese,
the burnt smell clings to our clothes,
our world an ignited bonfire and our surprise
when the plumeria bursts into scarlet bloom
as if lit by a torch, its insistent beauty
defies the death march of rocks and sky,
then our small, animal fear driving us
back into the dark.