Harvesance

Summer-sting, she calls it, when sweat seeps into her eyes. She hates it more than barbecues, which are overrun with flies. The heat haze over searing roads she truly hates the most, for it portends the height of summer, wherein she’ll stick and roast. Beads of perspiration exude from every pore, and with the buzzing gnats around her, she often went to war.

She soon shot up in spree and hastily went inside, where she’ll bask in central air, and from beaming Sol, she’ll hide. Unfortunately for her, central air did fail, and the stuffy fumes of inner rooms she'd continue to exhale. Not even Luna’s chilling light that shone all throughout the night could temper Sol’s oppressive might, which stirred her summer misery spite.

In dreams, the gray of overcast replace torrid summer blues, and trees would waft in breeze of cool and are clad in harvesant hues. Knitted scarf desires supplant scanty wear, and the scents of spice and cinnamon summon rustic flare. Moss-covered benches, alone in a park, with heaps of crispy leaves, leave their lucid mark, for she can taste the pine and maple-scented bark. She awoke in sultry agony; the harvest months entice, but summer wasn’t done, so fans and ice must suffice.