summer

I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer.

A warm breeze blew through my window like a gentle wave lapping the sandy shore in summer at low tide, and as I took in a breath of air that blanketed my body like tall grass in a field I felt for just that moment in time, like I did when I was a child. I felt that I had not one worry, not one burden, nothing was on my mind accept that breeze that made the curtains swell like balloons.

The summer breeze was blowing on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden

After a long day, folk rest at night.  After a long summer, folk play games and sit about in the winter.  After a long life folk sit about the fire and stay warm, for the chill of death is upon them, and even the thickest bearskin can't keep off the shivering.

One swallow does not make a summer, neither does one fine day; similarly one day or brief time of happiness does not make a person entirely happy.

There was something sacred about those afternoons—pagan, it’s true, but sacred. The browner my skin turned, the more clearly I understood the sun truly is a god worthy of worship.
    Even with eyes closed I could see him. I felt him sink into me at the atomic level, infuse my cells as I drifted in and out of sleep, floated on pillowy clouds of sun-induced lethargy, head spinning with idle questions such as Where are the records of all the things that never happened? and Why do hippies have big feet? and Is “self-referential” a self-referential word?

Inebriate of Air - am I -
And Debauchee of Dew -
Reeling - thro endless summer days -
From inns of Molten Blue -

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee -