The Summer solstice came, and went so quick,
A day like any other, only longer.
She stayed at home abed, for most of it,
Languishing, and wishing she were stronger.
Dreaming of the flowers she would pick,
In years gone by, when she was younger.
The scent! Ah, the scent would make her giddy.
And her heart yearned for that now, such a pity!
In the evening, she took a little walk,
Along the garden way, she feebly wandered.
Pink, perfect posies, poised on every stalk!
With mournful gaze, she could only ponder,
Why silk, and satin petals, seemed to mock,
In colours, bright as freshly laundered.
And, how gifts, as beautiful as these,
Had lost their power, to set her soul at ease.
Rosebuds open, red, and pink, stunning the senses.
Bright blue, feathery jays, puff out their plumage.
Blushed orbs, yellow cherries' swelling commences.
Dashing black, sleek trickster Crows, pay her homage,
Cackling loudly, along the picket fences.
As papery breeze, rustles leaves, in green collage.
Still, this Solstice beauty, only makes her pine;
For the days when she felt joy, in summertime.
The poem, and the Lovin' Spoonful song seemed to come together in my head at the same moment...
I was trying my hand here at ottava rima; an Italian verse form with abababcc rhyme scheme. A familiar form used by Lord George Byron. My apologies to Byron...
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© 2019 Verlie Burroughs