The Last Of Summer Is Delight
As I was lounging on the chaise throwing myself head first into a novel by Kazuo Isiguro who wrote Remains of the Day, out of the corner of my eyes big, billowy cumulus clouds were racing by so rapidly so as to distract me from trying to read.
Since I was already having difficulty trying to keep the pages from folding over in the wind, I laid the book across my chest to look up at the sky which was swathed in cornflower blue. Emily must have been pushing the wind up from the South, causing even the clouds to flee the oncoming storm.
Squinting through veiled lashes, I thought: Summer still has promise. The unfinished project–the one not yet begun, the path not hiked, the bird not spotted, the book not read, the paint tubes untouched, the friends unseen. Summer is still tugging at me and I must heed her call.
©Teresita Abad Doebley All rights reserved 2009-2011.
The last of Summer is Delight —
Deterred by Retrospect.
‘Tis Ecstasy’s revealed Review —
To meet it — nameless as it is —
Without celestial Mail —
Audacious as without a Knock
To walk within the Veil.”
~ Emily Dickinson, The Last of Summer is Delight