The Ceiling Fan

The ceiling fan spins ‘round and ‘round
Distributing the air
To spread a little breeze to those
Who might be sitting there.

It does its job and I do mine –
To sit beneath its blades
While hoping that the building heat
Reverses course and fades.

The weatherman’s predicting
That the weekend will be worse
As the gathering humidity
Will zap us like a curse.

If it does, the fan won’t help us
But will trick us to believe
That its whirring has the power
Only Nature can relieve.