"Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January"
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Summer arrives like credit, not cash: an advance on happiness you don’t quite earn, and don’t fully notice you’re spending until the bill lands. Hal Borland’s line works because it turns a season into a financial instrument, taking something supposedly carefree and translating it into obligation. A “promissory note” is faith made formal, optimism with fine print. By “signed in June,” Borland pins the moment of agreement to the first flush of the season, when we’re most likely to believe time will expand to match our plans. Then he snaps the trap shut: the “long days” are “spent and gone,” a double meaning that makes leisure feel like currency squandered.
The punch comes from “due to be repaid next January.” Winter isn’t just the opposite of summer; it’s the collection agency. January carries cultural baggage Borland knew well in mid-century America: post-holiday austerity, cold routines, the psychological hangover of celebration. The sentence smuggles in a moral claim about attention and gratitude. Summer’s debt isn’t repaid with money but with memory, longing, and the stubborn human habit of realizing value only after it’s vanished.
Borland, a nature writer with a journalist’s eye for metaphor, isn’t simply romanticizing seasons. He’s critiquing the way modern life converts even abundance into scheduling pressure and future regret. The line flatters no one: it suggests we routinely mismanage joy, then act surprised when the world asks for interest.
The punch comes from “due to be repaid next January.” Winter isn’t just the opposite of summer; it’s the collection agency. January carries cultural baggage Borland knew well in mid-century America: post-holiday austerity, cold routines, the psychological hangover of celebration. The sentence smuggles in a moral claim about attention and gratitude. Summer’s debt isn’t repaid with money but with memory, longing, and the stubborn human habit of realizing value only after it’s vanished.
Borland, a nature writer with a journalist’s eye for metaphor, isn’t simply romanticizing seasons. He’s critiquing the way modern life converts even abundance into scheduling pressure and future regret. The line flatters no one: it suggests we routinely mismanage joy, then act surprised when the world asks for interest.
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