In my head, there is a home for every wildflower and summer bug, for every wisp of grass, for every sunrise and cheek made rosy by it, for every singing chickadee and berry fallen from the tree. I grasp the seconds of this season so I can place them in my memory hall and carry it with me wherever I go. I run through the garden with my dog, I press my fingers against a tanned arm as I try to remember how pale the skin is when summer is gone. I live and I breathe a thousand times more. To fill my lungs with August is to put photographs into frames and hang them on the hallway leading me home.
When I visit the ravine after rainfall, mosquitoes appear like tiny warriors. Until today, it has been raining at least every second day. The ponds were starting to look like tiny oceans as they spilled over pathways and drowned many flowers. I was starting to befriend misery. I have spent too many hours longing and writing poems for this season, how could it be taken away from me and made short by storm clouds? Nature, like music, life and love, can devour you and all of your joy without a firing signal. It can give and give and give like the pulp of a fruit or the vitamin from the sun, but it can take and take and take like war or the words "I don't love you anymore."
Now that the forecast sings its warm weather song, I run to the hills and listen for the birds I couldn't hear when it was raining. Music is around, on the prairies and the valleys, in the ponds and the flowerbeds. The days may soon begin to turn green into orange, blue into gray and flowers into floating leaves, but we still have the rest of August and my hope are for its leftovers to carry well into September.
Must I say it again? Summertime, I am yours. Always.