Summer

Summer.
A season that speaks, for me, of opposite.
Promise and broken promises,
Bright dreams and nightmares,
Crumbling expectations and great hope.
Summer has been all of these and more.
Year by year, summer has meant something different.
All seasons run thus:
But summer...

Summer, at least in these scholastic years,
Is when everything changes,
When everything falls apart or comes together.

Two summers past I struggled through pain and sorrow:
The greatest I had yet known,
And saw the course set for a year that would be much the same.
It was good.
It was hard.

One summer past I enjoyed the deepest fellowship,
The greatest joy I had yet known,
And saw the course set for a year that would be much the same.
It was hard.
It was good.

And summer has come again: I know not what she holds in store;
I know not
What great or terrible
(Or great and terrible)
Purpose may come to be
As days and weeks and months unfold.

I know that summer sun and summer storm are oft birthed as twins.
I know that peace and tranquility
Are sometimes jarred by the swift assault of fierce tempests.
I know that great thundering rain
Is sometimes beatified with gaps of blue sky, and rainbows.
I know that storm and peace
Are not in such fearful opposition as they sometimes seem:
For peace may be birthed most deeply in the midst of the greatest storm;
And, true, can be known most deeply only in the tempest.

These days now slowly passing by:
They hearken to days ahead and days behind -
Reminding of all that has come before and promising of all that is to come,
For good or ill.
In moments of loud sunniness or quiet gale,
As green and brown and blue mingle gloriously;
As lightning flash and thunder echo across the plain...

Summer comes, and I know not what she holds.
She speaks to me of opposites.
And wond'ring I am left here
Gazing at the sky.
Answers will come
In time.