Summer is for Reading

summer is for reading
lazy days because the sun wears me out,
drains me
and words have a power all their own, don't they?
such sentence structure
such magnitude and majesty
all the windows are open and the breeze is stale
yet the air in the paragraph is strong
like a gale

fall is for mourning
it really is more the season of death, isn't it?
brittle, grouchy leaves;
they don't make for good friends
and while, like death, they have such bold color,
and fill one with a sense of euphoria--
because is not death the threshold to something greater?
they dry up and rot and decay back into little atoms again
fall, I guess then, is also the season of waiting

winter, how disconcerting, is for moping--
well, it is more like the afterlife
all white and clear and pure and, say, fluffy;
slopes and sleds and such--
but it is so terribly and awfully
quiet
the days are too short, like the bursting energy of sunlight
is just that, a short burst
the nights are long and the sky is naked
a fearsome reality
so excuse me while I go complain in a corner

spring is for praising
a bit obvious, yes?
ah, true, that the months of rebirth are glorious
everyone knows that, and yet,
not all appreciate
I'm speaking in terms of myself, see?
it's the time of sticky
pollen and skin
to tiptoe in the dew of the grass
or run out in the rainstorm to roll up the car windows
mothers are powerful during this time
flower and girls and birds
because it is so apparently meant for birth

Reviews

[..]

i enjoyed your write, quite the write.

[c.m.]

I enjoy the stanza about fall most...perhaps I am a bit morbid. But you know that.