This summer hasn’t been the best. It’s hot and very dry (Texas has been officially declared a natural disaster), I miss my beau and my college town (who would have thought living at home would be the hardest part of going away to college?), and I am having a very hard time with my summer job. The heat and the boy I mostly have under control, but the job… I won’t go into detail or complain, but there are numerous circumstances surrounding this job which rub me the wrong way. I know I am lucky to have a job and I am thankful for it, but I’m counting down the days until this job (and the summer) are over so I can be back in school with my friends and a job I adore, not to mention my beau, about whom this poem is written.
The title of this poem comes from a phrase my mother said while listening to me vent about my day at work, but I figure it applies to more circumstances than just the one.
Summer of Discontent
A season is to a life
a drop of water in a puddle.
It is not nearly a drop in an ocean —
the ratio is far too insignificant —
but if a life were comparable to the sea,
this season would be like you,
on a hot July day,
swimming as far away from the shore
as you possibly can,
until the tide threatens
to pull you to its open waters,
stealing you forever.
In the eyes of the sun above
you are hardly a speck,
unremarkable at best,
but the ocean will remember you
and the curves of your body
as you pushed against her,
challenging your limits and her might,
just as I will remember this season,
this summer I must spend
so far from both the ocean
and from you.