Summer (Seasonal Quartet, #4)

by Ali Smith

Sacha’s chest filled with the kind of warmth that once when she was really small she’d asked her mother about because it felt so nice and her mother’d said that’s

your inner summer.

The tree in me shall never die. Be I ashes be I dust. That is the tree that joins the sky. To earth and us. The tree in me shall never die. No lovers sleeping breath compare.

With her shy music in the sky. Of leaves and air.