Some people are in awe of spring while others pine for fall.
Some like icy winters and too many don’t care at all.
Summer is her season.
Glorious summer, when images of turquoise oceans, bright
blue skies and sugar sands are enough to make her cry.
Glorious summer, when the sun kisses her skin and
streaks her hair golden until it seems that a painter has wiped his brush on her.
Glorious summer, when she can fill her senses with the
fragrance of the jasmine and the gardenia.
Glorious summer, when her lips on a ripe peach or a juicy
strawberry remind her of the best kisses she’s ever had.
Glorious summer, when cool white sheets on her sunburned
skin, mimic the touch of teenage summer love.
You can have your spring with its showy vanity; your fall
with its boastful fire or your winters with its gaudy holidays and false promises of renewal.
She will wait for summer, never impatient, always breathlessly
surprised by the gloriousness of it all.
undertheinfluenceofpoetry 