In which Your Humble Blogger invokes the power of rhyming couplets in response to this hot, hot, holy-crap-is-it-hot weather:
The last song's candlelight's been ridden
Home. Summer's gone. Her shoulder's hidden
Beneath her coat; the door step lamp
Has dimmed early against a damp
And falling night. Yet, though her shoulder
Stays covered now, the trees, in colder
Blue months, turn bare. Their leaves are laid.
The light returns. The bed's unmade.
* * *
It might seem perverse that I'm posting a poem that references the end of summer before summer has even started, but there's a good reason for it:
I don't like summer.
No, I guess it's okay, but give me the cool weather, the bright colors, the array of scents, and that odd feeling of change and possibility that come with spring and fall instead. And cooler weather is totally good sleeping weather for me -- I love bundling up under, like, twelve layers of cozy blankets! This poem was written last year when the weather is similar to what it is now: Hot. Surprisingly hot. It was written during one of the first warm spells of the year, which made the image of trees losing their leaves a much more appealing metaphor for me to work with.
"Hey, what's a meta for?" For making up poems that are totally out of season, I guess!