Sing to summer with a pure voice full of balm;
husky with heat; a little dazed with brightness
of the sun; and drunk on perfume of flowers
in vicious bloom, in soft feathered stretching days.

Take out our rug and flap it like a wing, let it
fall sure and flat to the fecund grass, littered
with white and yellow daisies, telling of the good
days we've had that made the smallest things grow.

Take out the wine, perspiring in the heat, take out
glasses for us, take out sandwiches and strawberries,
and honeydew sliced: press it to our mouths,
let juice run from our lips, be bees greedy on nectar.

Run your fingers through my warm hair, flaxen-
sun made; see my eyes half closing in this heat;
hear my breathing slow in the heaviness of this day;
whisper summer using only the sounds of my name.

© by Amy Louise Wyatt.
Used with the author's permission.