My Summer

Slowly, the summer,

the slow-moving summer,

summons the sun

to lumber through days.

Slowly, yes, slowly,

succumbing to slumber,

June is encumbered

with summer’s slow ways.

Slowly, the summer,

July’s yawning summer,

bumbling and mumbling,

has swum through the haze.

Slowly, more slowly,

the humdrum of August

numbs and becomes

a smooth summer glaze.

Slowly, the summer,

this sun-suited summer,

rumpled and crumpled,

has run through its days.

How could the summer,

the slow fire of summer,

have come in a moment–

and gone in a blaze?

Joseph Bottum is Books & Arts editor of The Weekly Standard.