I love summer, but it can be a complicated season. When you're young, summer is fairly simple. "School's out" and you have the chance to be a different, a freer person. My childhood summers were spent at summer camps, an experience that left a very strong impression on me, cf. my novel WHAT IT WAS LIKE.
Summer promises all kinds of magic: the beach ... cool cars ... summer romance ... barbecues ... star-gazing ... summer songs ... sleeping outside ... fireflies ... outdoor music ... lemonade stands ...water balloon fights ... picnics ... watermelon ... drive-ins ... amusement parks ... boats ... marshmallow roasts ... summer movies ... miniature golf ... roadtrips ... fireworks ... long afternoon naps ... and endless games of baseball.
And when summer was over, you had to return to your "real" self and fall back to Earth. The cycle repeated itself, year after year, until it was all a blur. And one day, your childhood was over.
Summer casts a special spell, especially on writers:
"Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language." ― Henry James
"In summer, the song sings itself." – William Carlos Williams
"And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer." ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
"Summer was on the way; Jem and I awaited it with impatience. Summer was our best season: it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots, or trying to sleep in the tree house; summer was everything good to eat; it was a thousand colors in a parched landscape; but most of all, summer was Dill." ―Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
"The summer night is like a perfection of thought." -Wallace Stevens
"I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days — three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain." ~John Keats
"To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie–
True Poems flee — "
– Emily Dickinson