Summers on my island 

Are unlike any other season

In any other place.

Mornings are a breeze-kissed whisper,

Chilled yet enticing,

Misty but warm.

Slowly, 

Ever so slowly,

The sun creeps up from its bed in the east

And floods through the leaves 

Which are fully unfurled now.

An array of blooms suddenly appears.

Along the gravel shoulders

Of the cracked pavement roads

There are a thousand bouquets.

Hawkweed, lupins, 

Sheep laurel, fireweed, 

Dandelions, pearly everlasting,

Cow vetch, asters, goldenrod,

Like never-ending floral cotton calico.

The summer sky is my favorite,

Stretching from the balmy, boggy forest

To the bay, cast in cerulean.

It’s dappled with dollops of clouds;

Nothing too ominous

Expect the occasional thunderstorm

That rumbles along and quickly passes through.

How strange to think 

That just a few months before,

The mornings were nothing but darkness

And the shoulders were nothing but snow.

Just as quickly as summer came, 

Winter will come again.

For now, though,

I’ll drink up the sky,

And laugh with the flowers,

And embrace the gilded morning sun

Rising from the sea.

For now,

I’ll relish in the beauty

That the pine-clad hills provide,

And sing of silver ponds and morning dew.