Dear Diary,

Summer is coming.

I can feel it in the water;

I can taste it in the air.

Plump strawberries sprawl with feckless abandon over the clean white linen covering the tables of the local farmer’s market.

In a public park, peaches softly succumb to the grip of a firm hand, spreading open wide, then wider to the succulent licks of a roving tongue.

Elsewhere, watermelon juices drip down ripe red lips, overflowing onto sticky fingers.

Everywhere, everywhere I can hear the low drone of the honeybees policing the best gardens and keeping stray stranger’s hands from sliding up the stems of any forbidden fruit.

Summer is coming, an orgy of sensuous sunshine and thin shadows, of icy drinks drowning in condensation and a bounty of milk and honey overflowing from full mouths to splash onto naked breasts, rinsed and cooled by sweating indolence, as we linger late and pretend that Fall cannot possibly follow these Roman indiscretions.

And I cannot wait for it, for all of it.