The spring's youth is fading, slithering away from my grasp.

The nights and mornings are tinged with red and

everything smells like summer. Sweat drips from

the insides of my knees and from my neck as I

walk; the sky is a gorgeous, forgiving blue,

the kind of blue that reminds me of angels' eyes.

The grass is quite Stepford, three inches long

like some perfectionist's green haircut.

It's perfect for rolling in, lying in,

dreaming in. The spring's quite mature

and it promises a hot summer, a summer of

joy and justice and words flowing from my fingertips,

inspired. During the summer, my wings come out,

flowing from my back like poems. In the summer,

I can be free except for the memories, my fetters.

((A/N: This was written looking out the window. I absolutely adore summer here, though there are a lot of memories tied to it that make me regret things, thus the last line. In my opinion, June is the best month of the year--where spring turns to summer.))