Those profound summer rains
have abandoned me when I needed them most,
the purring asphalt cushioning our steps
deliver clarity with their tufts of mist.
Others argue that summer should
remain blazing, relentless, and remorseless,
that anything less would be any other season
filled with progressions and depressions,
the ups and downs of our spinning ball of madness. 
Summer’s heat is no less necessary 
than the night we need to sleep it off.
I only wish 
that so many of my favorite patterns of this season
were not secrets saved
for the brave,
the mad,
or the creative
after the rest of the world has gone inside. 
We need those secrets again.