Travis

18

Shall I describe for thee a summer's day?
A perfect picnic breezy kind of scene?
Or one that is hot and sticky, but grey?
Either day is what summer tends to mean.
A season measures where the Earth is tilt;
and when I learned that leap years are a thing,
I doubted the calendar you had built.
'Cause I can't calculate it's really spring.
I'm told now's August, is it September?
I don't know for sure if I don't measure
Your bissextiles, I'm forced to remember.
I know at least summer is for pleasure
Even if I do not believe the day,
I chill and read, forget your made cliche.