Apropos of nothing, a little poem I wrote the other night:
Mountain and meadow,
Sunlight and shadow,
All made to glorify Thee
Birds here, beasts there
Fauna tall, flora fair
Every one singing of Thee
Child’s laugh to old man’s sigh
Calendar pages flying by
Humanity aching for Thee
It’s the five-minute flash write with the fabulous people. We: play.
All these pretty happy shiny people with their pretty shiny happy Instagram posts, loving summer.
My disdain for you knows no bounds.
That’s not really true. There are people for all seasons and seasons for all people. This isn’t mine. Which is odd. Because I was born in August. The hottest month of the year around these parts.
Summer is the time for extroverts, I think. They get to go out and play in all the groups with all the noise and all the mess. Me? I’m sitting inside, by my air conditioning unit, sulking. Waiting ever-so-impatiently for late September and the slide into non-tortuous temperatures. For rain and boots and scarves and crisp mornings that beckon one out into the glorious, changing expanse.
I hate summer. People get depressed in winter; me, I feel low in the haze and the heat. Yes, I’ll go play with you for awhile. I’ll swim or enjoy a ride in a boat. I’ll certainly eat ice cream. I do love to garden. But after an hour – I’m done. It’s over. I’m sweating and sticky and my facial expression is involuntary, major side-eye. The great she-crab just wants to retreat into her shell. (Do crabs do that? Probably not).
How glad I am, as Anne Shirley was, that we live in a world where October exists.
Sometimes I wonder what I’m gonna do
‘Cause there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues
– Cochran & Capehart