Fading Summer…


It was once my good fortune to work with a very entertaining, though sarcastic person of considerable intellect, whose barbs were not always appreciated. One of her many word bombs was intended to spotlight the slow, backward nature (her view, not mine) of our rural community whenever she would remark, “Christmas always comes as a surprise in _________!”


Fill in the name of any little town, or big one, almost anywhere….and this statement could/would be accurate, because Christmas does come as a surprise to many….it surprises me. Every year!


But, another product of the calendar and climate that never fails to take many of us by surprise is the velocity with which summer always speeds past and ultimately slips away.


And, doggone, if it isn’t doing it again!


Like cabbage roses, slightly overblown,

The fading days of Summer cling to life…

Slanting sunshine back lights woodsy lanes,

With hints of cooler evenings growing rife.

I love the greens of spring and mid-July:

I love the lushness early rains produce.

In June, the season’s richness endless seems,

Our days are long and Summer’s on the loose.

Children romp in school-is-out-abandon,

Or used to, but today their little noses

Are buried in a media-driven maze…

And play has faded much like cabbage roses.

Still joy is wrung from freedom, from vacations:

Books are read for fun, and games are played.

Time slows and tilts toward limitless potential,

When Summer in her fullness is arrayed.

Let’s have a swim or plan a picnic supper!

Like romance, when a love affair is new,

We conjure up fresh ways to be together,

Our vows with lovely Summer we renew.

Then August enters like a jealous lover,

Determined such unfettered glee must end:

One morning we awake, and things are…..different.

The fangs of sad decay lurk ‘round the bend.

Now comes the frantic need to just hold fast:

To wring the most from these last days of bliss.

A sultry siren often called “September”

Becomes a blight on Summer’s final kiss.

As poignant as a love that pales too soon,

A tragic heroine, our Summer, cries:

“My sepia sister Autumn’s in the wings…

Too soon comes Winter…”

And, with that, she dies.


Senior Picnic....

Collin's 26th