Summer seeps in
like Athenian oil.
It enters the skin
and smoothes out our toil.
Summer is rare
like ambrosial dew.
It freshens the air,
says all things will be new.
There's a sense in which every season seems to be a happy accident which may not happen again. The sky could be burnt orange instead of blue, and the breeze, shifting a cumulous horizon, could be hot instead of cool. I'd elaborate on the feeling, but working in this perfect weather has worn me out.
"...says all things will be new"—there is definitely a bittersweet aspect to it.
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