Summer

 

Never liked the Indian summer,

Van Morrison wrote a song about it,

But what does he know

About the relentless sun,

That kills every thing in sight,

Whether it's the calmness of cold,

Or the passions of wet days?

Lana sings of summertime sadness

And I agree with her.

What do you do when your body 

Is on fire, but your mind draws a blank?

When you want to write sonnets about

Warm kisses, but end up putting 

On the shades so no one can read your eyes,

When all you want to do is lay low, because

After all, where can you run from this

Scorching skin that turns browner each day,

Like a char grilled fish in melted butter sauce?

You feel over exposed like a photograph,

That was meant to be captured in

Perfect light, but now the brightness

Has ruined your perfect face.

These days I want to be lost and found.

I will hide in cool, underground burrows,

Where my thoughts can't be read.

I will climb green trees and sit

Right in the middle where the light

Doesn't reach my blinded eyes.

I will wait for my seasonal death,

Like the squirrel waiting for the cat,

Who will tip toe so quietly, inch by inch,

Towards my descent, and when it tears

My tender neck into a gush of red,

I will rejoice at being given another chance

To prove my worth to nature's best.

The hunter and the hunted,

Will play their part,

And summer will soon give way,

To a new prologue, fresh grass

That will sprout out of a hardened ground.