I want summer so badly I can barely contain myself. I mean, I can’t remember ever having pre-spring fever with this intensity. I day-dream about going outside without a protective covering of down, wool, and leather. Dimly, I remember a time when it was still light at 9pm and the warmth of the day lingered through leisurely dinners on patios. Tennis, running, basketball. Swimming holes, lawn sprinklers, sunburns.
Winter is great, but there’s just so much of it; this February/March time is just a brutal wait for warmth. So, (with apologies to and inspiration from the poetry of Mykala)… to pass the time, some language evocative of the coming summer:
It’s not the sunlight, scattered across the surface of the lake
Nor is it the birdsong of clipped harmonies
Or the paddle, dipped into the satiny water
It is none of these things
It is the instrument we become
Resonating with our surroundings
Suspended by water
Struck by light
Caressed by twilight
… … …
Hopefully that won’t classify as “bad poetry, oh noetry,” but you never can be too sure.
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