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Summer is the annual permission slip to be lazy. To do nothing and have it count for something. To lie in the grass and count the stars. To sit on a branch and study the clouds.

I am a summer person.

Both the Winter and the Summer Solstices are expressions of love. They show us the opposition of light and dark, expansion and contraction, that characterize our experiences in the Earth school so that we can recognize our options as we move through our lives.

Winter lingered so long in the lap of Spring that it occasioned a great deal of talk.

Let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.

If there's a 'Cruel Summer' then there's got to be a 'Cruel Winter,' right? That's all I'm saying.

I never understood the concept of a fluffy summer read. For me, summer reading means beaches, long train rides and layovers in foreign airports. All of which call for escaping into really long books.

Summertime in Montana, I become a monosyllabic baboon. I want to ride with the cowboys, go to brandings, doctor cattle, and train my horses. But in a few months, the snow starts to fly. The days become shorter; the yellow color of interior light becomes delicious. I look at my shelves, and every book just glows, and I want to be inside of that.

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.