Raw, adjective: 9. disagreeably damp and chilly, as the weather or air: a raw, foggy day at the beach.
The summer smiles, the summer knows,
and unashamed, she sheds her clothes.
The summer smoothes the restless sky,
And lovingly she warms the sand on which you lie.
The summer knows, the summer's wise,
she sees the doubts within your eyes,
And so she takes her summertime,
tells the moon to wait and the sun to linger,
Twist the world around her summer finger.
Lets you see the wonder of it all,
And if you learned your lesson well,
There's little more for her to tell,
One last caress, it's time to dress for fall.
You know how there are certain songs that haunt you, melodies that, when they pop up unexpectedly in your life, make the rest of the world stop for a few thick moments as your cells soak them up? You remember where you were when you first heard them, you remember how your breath caught in your throat, you remember the revelation on turning a corner and finding it wailing out of a solo saxophone in a narrow alley or thumping out of an upright bass in a dingy bar with an aging jazz trio tucked in the corner? And a part of you almost doesn't want to find it or buy it or play it or know it too well, because that would take away that heart-stopping experience of it slipping in and out of your life when you least expect it?
Yeah, well that's The Summer Knows. Theme from Summer of '42. Sixteen years old the first time I heard it. And I've finally dug up a dusty copy of the sheet music from the innards of the music library down at the SFPL, an arrangement that's just a little too difficult for my clunky fingers, but then it's morning and it's foggy and the streets are quiet and your fingers slowly get used to playing in 4 flats. And you've got Barbra sailing away on the melancholy minor melody of the whole thing from her ancient 1971 album and August is around the corner and your life looks like pinot and plums and fog and farmers' markets, and "so she takes her summertime..."