He said :

Summertime is when he would change some awful habits.

Not serious enough at that moment,
perhaps, perhaps just lip service to those willing to listen?

A game he liked to play with himself.

A game not born of lies,
but rather, "who cares" procratination.

He said :

I'll organize those old pictures I've been putting off.

He said :

I'll finish that poem that has been waiting for it's ending.

Announcing to himself out loud,
or anyone else that would listen....
"come summertime" I will. !

And then...

The coldness of winter still thawing,
his bones still cold.

He notices...
His health deteriorating,  slowly.

A cough that lingers,
shortness of breath.

Energy reserves on fumes,
he falls gravely, unsuspectingly ill.

He says to himself:

Come summertime I will see my doctor.

He says :

I will organize those pictures into a neat scrapbook.

He says :

That poem I will finally write an epic ending for.

Trouble is....

For him,
Summertime never comes.