silly summer rhyme

When the world becomes a droning, throbbing, whirling cage of sound,
which at nightfall swaps cicadas for the crickets on the ground;
When eighty is the morning cool and ninety is the shade
where dandelions shake their manes between the green grass-blades;
When smooth, browning skin is mottled with a hundred itching bites
from lying wait to watch the stars on humid, sweaty nights;
When afternoons are broken by a common, rumbling rain
of storms that roll to wax and rage, but swiftly, gently wane;
When your elbow drips sweet juices from the ripe peach in your mouth--
Welcome friend, to summer in the south.