I TASTE a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove’s door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
~Emily Dickinson
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
It’s easy to be drunk with summer these days. Though it’s not technically summer yet, schools are out, gardens are bursting into bloom, and the air is full of the golden trajectories of honeybees. Here in the north of the South, we’re having perfect weather–warm but not hot, balmy breezes, blue skies punctuated by puffs of white cloud.
It won’t last–it never does. We’re typically in a drought by August, and before that, temperatures have become wretchedly hot and the air is humid. It’s hard to sleep at night with the windows open.
But for now, we are living in a temperate paradise. The soft wind carries the scent of sun-warmed pines through the screen, and in the evenings, the crystalline song of a wood thrush traces invisible lines of silver through the perfumed air. Impossible not to be drunk on summer these days. It’s best to just sink into it.
The Emily Project 