Whether/weather to wither

I've never thought of myself as an athlete. I was in marching band, for God's sake. We musicians left jumping to the snobs (oops, I mean cheerleaders) and moving with any significant pace to the jocks. So, a number of decades later, I'm surprised to find myself eager to move. But it's just too darn hot. It is weather to wither in, and so I'm not moving forward in any literal sense. And only very slowly in a metaphorical sense. Though it is a joy to spend summer in the city when most metropolitans are "Up North" (ah, that mythic place of both un- and over- specific locality), the sun these days is crisping the lawns and withering the city-dwellers.

In the face of the great withering, today's Dickinsonian oracle proclaims:

Beauty - be not caused - It Is -
Chase it, and it ceases -
Chase it not, and it abides -

Overtake the Creases

In the meadow - where the Wind
Runs his fingers thro' it -
Deity will see to it
That You never do it -
(E. Dickinson, 654)

So such hot days are beauty-catching days. No need to run.