It can't be "Summer"! — Summary

The speaker refuses to believe that summer has arrived—it must have snuck past, or maybe it was never truly here. She protests that it’s still too early for spring; there’s that long stretch of white, a winter town, to cross before any blackbird sings. Then her mind leaps to dying, but that can’t be right either: dying is too rouge, too red, when the dead are supposed to dress in white. A sunset, lush with gold-green chrysolite, sweeps in and quiets her questioning. The mood is one of stubborn, almost childlike resistance to the obvious. She’s not just confused about the calendar—she’s pushing back against time itself, against the colors and cues the world gives her. It’s as if she’s inside a riddle where summer, spring, and death all refuse to behave. That gentle bafflement, mixed with wit, leaves you smiling at how the ordinary suddenly feels enchanted and slightly off-kilter.