How she swoons…Summer, having spent herself flourishing, flourescing her bright burns upon upturned eternal-spring faces, begrudging the tiny fires flaming in each child.
She has her revenge, as she sends to worn skins like mine plagues of flies, and steams my breath right out of my breast.
And how she departs in a churning swirl of vaporous skirts, laughing and mean, promising next season’s duchess shall be all the more vexed and will accept nothing less than cold, hard penance for all the frolicks spiting fall, the denials of November and her bitter winds, the sleeping ears drowning out her sister’s sounding arrival.
O’ Summer, have mercy: Extend a gloved hand to the dried-up knee, the foggy eye that shall evermore see how brief is your visit, how all too quickly your heat recedes when spurned by the child and her tiny fire and her cries of victory. Worn skins like mine pledge fealty.