Summer

It is the last day of spring
As I lay beside this lake.
Three clouds drift like frayed cotton balls
Over trees on the distant shore,
While children ply the waves on skis,
Holding fiercely to ropes pulled by speedboats
That rustle up the water and send it hurtling toward me
In splash and glurp and plunk
Against the dirt shoreline where I sit
With ants and mosquitoes
In the dying light of afternoon.
I move now into the summer,
Leaving behind the planting season
That burrowed me into the soil where I took nourishment and water,
There growing through rock and clay to rise up from the ground
Where stink bugs crawl among aphids
Across scanty grasses and flat weeds that cover the soil.
I rise up now to face the sun,
In full, unflinching oppressive heat of summer
To feel its warmth and take life from it,
Feeding myself,
Storing life from its rays in my strong, hard bones,
To stand tall and bring shelter to those who lay here beneath my shadow
And rest upon my roots
That curve downward into earth like a solid recliner
Into whose lap they may find rest,
Who sleep beneath me in my hard embrace,
As I grow food for autumn,
Thinking not of winter so soon.