By Phyllis Beebe
On August days when the sun was hot
Gramma's cellar was a lovely spot.
The floor was earth, the walls were stone:
Cool and quiet, I'd sit alone
Smelling the scent of pungent dill
From the pickle crock I'd helped to fill.
Listening to footsteps up over head
Knowing Grampa's or Gramma's tread.
Hugging myself in my cool retreat
Safe from the deepest August heat.