Mother, Summer, I
by Philip Larkin (1922-1985)
My mother, who hates thunderstorms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost.
And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone;
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.
I post this poem today in honor of my mother's birthday. She, too, hated thunderstorms, and I had to sit on the couch with my feet off the floor when one was brewing.
And like the author, I'm "easier when the leaves are gone." I'm more comfortable when the weather isn't so boisterous.