When my night ends at three,
I, admittedly, feel a little guilty.
Because I know tomorrow
Won’t meet its full potential.
I know I’ve pushed aside
Valuable use of my time.
But it’s not such a bad thing to do.
At my age, I’m supposed to.
I’m supposed to be liberated,
Be loud, be inflated.
I’m supposed to waste a few things,
To trade my feet for wings.
Because summer’s not about swimming pools,
The sunshine, or being cool.
It’s not about hamburgers,
Tank tops, or sunburns.
Summer, undressed, is about one word:
I can wake up at noon, and that’s ok.
I can watch TV all day, and that’s ok.
I can write nonsense for hours, and that’s ok.
I can do nothing at all, and that is damn ok.
Because when summer starts, the clock is mute.
Schedules relent, and work’s fences melt away.
I can do nothing all day, and that truly is damn ok.
But same as summer’s start, summer’s end brings another way.
Carelessness is just as useless
As the words I wrote on that fancy napkin.
Summer’s end brings the noise back,
Brings attention to the forgotten.
So, as you might be aware of, summer is quickly coming to a close. As such, I thought it fitting to craft my last Poequest poem about summer and what I think it means. I hope you’ve all enjoyed your summers as much as I’ve enjoyed mine, and I hope the work that may or may not be looming isn’t too much of a downer.
This is poem number seven in my seven poem-long event, so if you’d like to take a look back at what I’ve written over the last seven days, I highly encourage you to. As always, let me know your thoughts and ideas.
Thanks very much to anyone who’s followed my blog this past week. Hopefully you liked what you read.
Enjoy your Sunday.