The Reprimand of Summer

Why do we worship summer's oppressive heat?
why are we in awe of it's muggy afternoons and lazy days?
It seems to me an unkindness the cessation of academia
fall upon the unforgiving heat of this most unkind season.
why do we shuffle out under this tirade of solar fury
which, like dementia, dulls our senses with its brilliance?

Spring, to me, seems little better.
Upstart buds shouting their way into winter's quiet reflections,
and blooming like unwanted fortissimo in a soulful lullaby.
With a heartless deluge it preludes the humidity to come
and seeks, like a thoughtless lover,
to soothe the argument with the offering a few flowers.

Are there not virtues in the other seasons?
Is Autumn, with mild contemplations not worthy of remembrance?
When the leaves repose, filling the last of their seasonal lives
with colors and brilliance unknown in their youth
do you not feel the artistic sundering of summers uninspiring pallet?
Is the prickling at your neck just the chill of the autumn wind?

And the winter season, whose gossamer precipitation
decorates the world with its profound and pristine silence.
Are you not moved by the fullness of its inspired melancholy
when the world like a glass sculpture seems so delicate
that a single word might shatter the prolific stillness.

For me, I do not argue the beauty of spring and the joys of summer,
but if we find so much to admire in spring and summer
and rejoice in the accolades of budding life,
then how much more somber and beautiful its decline?