A Love Letter to Summer

Dear Diary,

I lie on my back while I glance at the balletic leaves on the cluster of coniferous trees. They intertwine with the warm light shining richly on my hair, like metal. Summer drags the exquisite birds into the wake of its conception out of the blooming spring flowers and strawberry vines. ‘Tis the season of the golden house that brings me my undying face. In its bittersweet farewell, I learned if the sun flees, it will soon follow. If the sun denies its caliber, rather will it donate it. If the sun doesn’t lust soon, it will involuntarily. What the golden air whispered to the twisted vine bride; what Icarus swore to his father; what the warm water kept from the breeze above the surface. They danced into a new season without listening. I watched August grow old as the disturbed leaves cascaded down. I grieve the golden house, but there is no fear in the change of a maple leaf or a dainty flower. The branches shift a little as the wind grows stronger to call out to the summer and say: “endless, disrupted.” Summer dissipates without a trace, as fall takes its place, and I wave a farewell.