Where Does The Summer Go?

17 August 2023
C. S. Sherin

Every once in a while, a poem comes racing out of me, and it spills out and finds its way to my blog, here. Today is one of those days....

Summer 2023, C. S. Sherin

Where Does
The Summer go?
        by C. S. Sherin
Will it ever, please, ever-nestle
in the heart,
and release its balmy winds upon
my being at all
the most-needed times?
At the end of summer,
I have only begun to remember
how to lie down upon beach towels
or generous blankets in the yard
and be, be, be...with
sweet dogs at my side...
with love and lover enfolding me...
with children causing happy ruckus next door,
with brilliant cats, and so many directions for
walking, and
with a new, fresh butterfly gliding about
looking for a patch of sun,
the right patch of sun, to rest within.
Stolen moments...they cannot be so.
And better late than never!
Better to taste the nectar of life
long and sweetly now.
Better to recline in the value of the
freedom to exist with peace and pleasure.
Freedom ever-present claimed.
Rest claimed.
Sunlight and gentle breezes grow strong.
Creativity claimed.
Health and movement.
Sweat forms and drips freely.
Sunlight and shade dance in the winds
where green vines cocoon us,
a secret garden of our own.
We can play there
hearts ever-young,
minds ready to live life anew.
Where does the summer go
when heat drives us inside, and work
never releases, nor does the striving?
Where does the summer go
as we age into a new existence
and stress-forget the freedoms ever-present?
How old were you when everything burned?
I was three. I was seven.
And other times too. Too many.
May summer, may spring, may fall
continually live within, at the most-needed times. May winter be gentle.
May winter never linger so long.
May there never be a time again
when everything burns and no peace is discovered.
I know the way.
It is the wisdom of a child.
It is the playful inspiration
of a loving grandparent, aunt, or uncle.
It is choice in how to rest. It is choice in solitude.
It is the joy and wonder of tiny things.
It is in actively seeking delight
in the midst of everything.
Too late in the summer, I find it.

C. S. Sherin ©2023, all rights reserved.