Summer is exhaustion not from exertion but from too long a cradle in the sun’s warm arms. It’s red knees from a lack of sunscreen and red lips from strawberry kisses. It’s swimming in pools, mountain creeks, lakes, and salt water.
Summer is rekindling old friendships and sparking new. It’s sleepless nights of secrets and stars. It’s late evenings that roll into pale early mornings of poetry and prose. It’s peaches and pineapples and iced coffee and ice cream.
Summer is day trips to museums and mountain vacations that become one glorious day. It’s libraries and lattes. It’s the smell of new books and the excitement of new movies. It’s the friendliness of old novels and familiar films.
Summer is fireworks and firesides. It’s sandals and sandy hair. It’s family jokes and family vacations to well worn places. It’s the Beach Boys and the Beatles, Dion and Frankie Valley.
Summer is a long sighing day, like one drawn out exhale, after a lingering intake of piney mountain air that smells strangely like how all should be.
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