A reflection on the fierce, untamed energy of Summer and the quiet struggle of an anxious mind seeking balance between intensity and rest. A journey through heat, rain, and the need to pause.

The thick humidity coats my skin like the sunscreen I forgot to put on.
Summer and I speak in different tongues.
I’m content here in the middle, leaning in no particular direction,
but Summer, she goes all in.

She spreads her heat like butter, melting over everything.
The adage, “enough is enough,” doesn’t work for Summer.
More is better—more sun, more sweat, more steam.
Summer knows how to get your attention.

The thing with Summer is that her boundless joy
walks hand in hand with her unbridled sadness.
You need the heat to summon the rain,
and her tears fall just as fiercely as her rays.

There I was, summoned by Summer’s thunder in the night.
Flickers of lightning streaked the edge of her fading sunset.
She cannot be contained. I witness her wildness behind the walls of my muted cage.
Despite fearing her roar, I cracked open the window.

After the suffocating heat of the day, her tears brought relief.
The Summer I knew was nowhere to be seen, hiding behind clouds for a brief reprieve.
Maybe she needed a moment to rest from pouring all of herself onto us.
It must be exhausting to burn so fiercely, so relentlessly.

I smeared the rain across the mesh of my window,
wondering if Summer and I were really so different.
Her rain felt like a return to a place I never knew I’d left.
The cool air, gliding over my skin like a silk scarf, gave me permission to slow down.

For someone who craves balance, I still burned at both ends,
melting for people, places, and things that never saw I was made of wax.
Summer goes all in, while I don’t go anywhere.
I guess that’s the plight of an anxious mind, caught between flying and fighting.

Maybe I could learn a thing or two from her.
She arrives, unapologetic and whole.
Even when she pulls back, she never fades,
for her light blooms wild and untamed.

But alas, Summer must rise again tomorrow, and so must I.
She can cry tonight, throwing a fit for both of us,
but she can’t storm forever.
Even the brightest flames need rest,
and so do I.

Process

New York City was in the grip of a heat wave, and every time I stepped outside, I disliked the sticky feeling of humidity on my skin. One night, after a long, hot day, a thunderstorm rolled in. Flickers of lightning caught my eye as I stood by the window, listening to the rain. This moment inspired my poem.