From Bloom to Blaze: Shifting Seasons in Poetry

As the last petals of spring curl into memory and the sun begins to linger a little longer each evening, I find myself in a state of transition. My poetry series follows the arc of the year, with each book rooted in a specific season's energy. And now, with summer swelling on the horizon, I'm shifting from the quiet reflection of spring to the vibrant exploration of summer.

Spring was a season of inward movement. Much of my writing during that time came from stillness afternoons spent watching the world wake up, listening to the rain, paying attention to the way the wind carried newness through the trees. I wrote about beginnings: the first breath after winter, the small decisions that plant the seeds of change, the gentle labor of becoming. In many ways, my spring poems were about work that's not always seen the kind that happens beneath the surface, deep in the soil of self and story.

That time was personal, meditative. A season of rooting.

But now… the world is changing.

The sun burns hotter each day, and the air crackles with movement. I can feel it in my body: an itch to get out, to live more loudly, to let the season show me something unexpected. Summer doesn't ask for reflection it demands experience. It doesn't wait. It pulls you.

And that's exactly what I want this next chapter of my poetry to capture.

With the arrival of summer, my writing process is no longer confined to quiet corners and soft contemplation. I'm seeking. I'm moving. I'm throwing myself into the season to find the sparks that become poems. That means exploring unfamiliar places, following impulse, saying "yes" to things I'd normally hesitate to do all in the name of gathering moments. Because for me, summer poems aren't born from thought; they're born from feeling.

They come from the hum of streetlights on warm nights. From sand in my shoes after hours at the beach. From sudden storms that roll in and drench the world in the smell of earth and thunder. From fireflies and loud music and the unexpected hush of a sunrise that catches me off guard.

The poems I'm writing now are different than the ones I wrote in spring. They're more restless. More tactile. More alive. They ask bigger questions, but they also sit comfortably in the moment they don't need to know everything yet. They just want to be.

And I'm learning to meet them where they are.

In this season, the page is less of a mirror and more of a map. I'm tracing the outlines of heat, passion, chaos, discovery. I'm writing poems that sweat, that burn, that taste like citrus and salt. I'm letting myself take risks both in life and in language. I'm letting the work breathe, stretch, run.

This is the beauty of working with the seasons: it keeps me honest. It keeps me moving. It reminds me that creativity isn't static. It shifts and surges and changes shape, just like the world around me. And I love that I get to share those changes with you through this series.

If spring was the careful planting of ideas and intentions, summer is the wild, sun-drunk bloom. The part where you stop planning and start living. Where you trust that whatever comes next will be worthy of the page.

So as I dive fully into writing this next collection, I'm doing it with eyes wide open and hands outstretched ready to catch whatever moments the season throws at me.

And I hope you'll come with me.

There's a whole summer of poetry ahead waiting in the heatwaves, the laughter, the silence after fireworks, the long drives, the lonely mornings, the sweetness of something fleeting. I'll be out there, gathering it all.

And when I return to the page, I'll turn it into something we can hold.

E. C. Mira