The summer called with golden air,
And whispers soft that I might dare
To leave my pen and pages bare,
For sun and sea and sky.
The days stretched long, the hours sweet,
With grass beneath and sand on feet.
I let my words fall incomplete,
And time, like tide, slipped by.
But in the quiet evening’s glow,
A nagging weight began to grow.
The stories left with much to show,
Unwritten in the breeze.
The ink that once would flow so free,
Now silent as the rustling tree.
And guilt arose inside of me—
A restless, sleepless tease.
For though the summer sang her tune,
My heart began to crave the moon,
Where thoughts take flight and dreams commune,
In letters rich and deep.
I sought my desk, the page, the quill,
With trembling hands and quiet will,
To make amends, to climb the hill
Where duty meets delight.
Though late, I write with passion fierce,
To mend the tales that summer pierced.
And in the words, my soul is nursed—
I work to make things right.
