Each poet’s pen and adolescent’s heart,
exhale the breath of summer’ name;
and sun shine brightest on the face of youth,
when she is at her highest frame.


When nature’s bloom elicits childish hands,
and gentle waves like puerile feet,
and arduous caress of loves’ palms,
alone protest the summer heat.


Then passions and abandon wax, extol
the barefoot freedom of the sun;
as libertine’s delight and Robin’s trill,
extend well past the day is done.


But some prefer a cooler breeze,
to welcome Sunday rest;
and sun’s blush greater radiant,
when setting in the West.


And while the zeal of summer play,
allures a feverish touching thrill,
what human warmth more magnified
than that which follows autumn chill?


The greens of summer don’t compare,
to palettes fall alone achieves;
and summer song is sweeter sung
when whispered through descending leaves.


To those who speak of summer love,
you’ve never really loves I trust;
as love is lost in verses that,
confuse true love with summer lust.


So I’ll ignore the ignorant
beliefs that kids and poets old,
and let them have their summer greens,
for everything in fall is gold.