In the good evenings of June

Well here we are, here we are: tomorrow is the month of June. And June is the month of summer. For meteorologists, summer even begins on June 1st. In other words, summer starts tomorrow. In short: here we are. It’s time to read Rimbaud again: “The lime trees smell good on good June evenings. The air is sometimes so sweet that you close your eyelids. It’s in a poem called Roman. And which begins with this famous verse, known to everyone: “One is not serious when one is seventeen years old. Incidentally, dear Arthur, is there an age when one is supposed to be serious? But that’s not the point. The subject is June. It’s summer. Like what it is necessary to benefit immediately from the so soft air celebrated by Rimbaud. Because very quickly it may not be mild at all, with the warming and all the mess, as we saw last summer. And yet we expect it all year round, the month of June, the month of summer. The month that announces the summer holidays. The month of long evenings, days that seem to have no end. Summer is a dream that we have for the rest of the year. But which runs the risk, alas, at the rate things are going, of soon remaining only a dream, which we will cherish with melancholy, when it becomes, year after year, the month which announces catastrophes. Now I’m getting serious, too serious. As are, today, those who are seventeen years old.

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