Summer resort for itinerant birds
Summer gracefully strolls in,
under a canopy of soft blue,
in her long, elegant, emerald gown,
spattered with dandy lined yellow sequins.
Her hair is a tangled birds nest,
woven of the finest golden rays
of sunshine, and bound by an
endless profusion of forget-me-nots.
She dances with tiny tots attending her,
who whirl around on her moss skirts,
in bare footsies and smiles.
She stretches her arms out,
in a long and lazy twirl,
that all are spun into,
and caught up in,
the waltz of her passing.
Her sweet perfumes waft over the
carboned dioxide cities,
and birds set the sweet melodies
to which she performs daily.
Occassionally a dark, and stormy gent
will sweep her off her feet,
and whisk her across gray skies
in a rhumba or two, and then
just as quickly, and coldly vanish,
leaving puddles of tears behind.
This blend of two opposites
attracts the urchins, who
mark each tiny pond as
a place to sail paper boats,
and splash like a flying fish in.
I am in love with summer
she fills me with a passion
not felt in any other season
and I will be married to her
until she leaves me with
a sudden fall and a wintry disposition.
For she does not belong to any one
but to all of us,
yet still a man can dream.
With a bit of tall grass between
his teeth and a straw hat
propped cockish on his head
as he rest beneath a maple
that bleeds sap not nearly as sweet
as Summer's fond embrace.
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