At midnight when the moon is high

On the pinnacle of Solstice

The ghost of summer arrives.

Over the fields, parting the night,

In sweeping, steady strides,

She appears as a vision, a dream.

I find myself locked in this mystical scene,

Watching her trail in soft, curling waves,

Long silver hair that reflects the moon's rays.

Then, as she comes closer, I feel her tears.

Moisture clings to me, though the night is clear.

As she passes, a chill fills the air

And in that moment, it lifts up my hair.

Listening closely, I hear her song,

A haunting melody, long after she's gone.

LSB