Angela

17

Summer is a Constant

Summer is a constant growing:
The sun is a tiger-lily,
Its petals strain, painted in blinding hues.
Stripes of ultra-violet strike everything.

Mother Nature’s fingers;
the grass the trees the green
Extended.
Grasping and groping for sustenance,
Only to wither in the heat like Icarus

Summer is a constant waking:
Small slits of sunrise overflow
Into the cracks and chasms of your plastic bedroom curtains
Like water falling through slits in a gutter.

Dust dances in the spectral orange light,
Preforming a lazy ballet
To mock the sleepys in your eyes.

Summer is a constant war:
The sun is a door-to-door salesman,
Never taking no for an answer.
He bestows upon you a demonstration on how to burn,
And you are left with samples of red skin and raw pores.

Sol lays siege, reigns;
Tyrant of the universal masses of twilight,
An autocratic King of the solar system.
Henry the Eighth reborn in a ball of chaotic gas.

Summer is a constant variation:
A prisoner to semantics yet a sentinel of the living,
It preaches sermons of wind-chimes, birds and frogs.
A siren leading you through lava flows of humidity.
You stargaze through shaded glass lenses
While the sun-flares play with your hair, tangling and knotting.

Summer is a constant;
A growing,
A waking,
A war.