I’m summer.

I know this because my feet are heat swollen
and my wedding ring doesn’t fit. Pushing sausage
fingers through a listless fringe, careful to avoid streaking
the melting liner on lower lids. The magnified sun radiates
an inch from my elbow and though summer’s intensity
bullies my strength, I can’t fall asleep,
I'm too busy.

I want to be the Autumn Ladies
sat at the front, gradually turning a shade
of burnt orange, accustomed to long and fruitful
summers.  They giggle in linen as the driver takes
bumps at speed, shaking their hair and dishevelling
leaves.  They’ve nurtured their seeds and are watching them
fall, their branches are freeing from burdens.

Winter sits near the stairs, cool and serene,
******* on travel sweets secreted in tins.
They watch Autumns’ laughter and smile,
remembering the fun after studious graft;  their seeds
are now trees in a burgeoning forest. At ease with their
future and legacy’s passed, their season is long and
peaceful.

Spring lies at the back, the most to prove, planting
to do, troughs to plough.  She looks to thinning out,
the culling of friends; only the strong will
survive the gardener’s hand.  Much expectations
are placed on her future, her bark underdone,
colours unknown against seedling green.  She strives
for sun in the shadow of elders, wild growing
weeds threaten her path.

I’m glad I’m not Spring anymore.