Summer loves hard.
She’s one big blowsy display of shameless desire.
All torrid days and steamy nights.
Leaving her victims slicked with sweat and stained in fluids,
Aching and flush with fever.
But she’s fickle and fast
and before long, she’s plotted her leave.
Toying and trying,
Running hot, throwing shade.
Her lovers blanch and grow sallow.
Vines redden with rage.
And petals, they sag and they sigh.
And she is too.
Nothing but a seasonal fling. We’re ditched.
She crushes us like spices —
Nutmeg, paprika, saffron and clove —
Ground to the ground in her wake,
The dusty detritus of a hard ride
With a hot wench.
Still, we wear our bruises like badges of valor,
eggplant and oxblood, ochre and rust,
as she rides into the sunset.
And Autumn rolls in,
tossing gold at our feet
like tokens of affection
Wiser now, we think:
Here’s a cooler kind of love,
So we climb back in the ring
To take another swing
Gluttons for a pretty face
and a fast ride.
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