When I was a child you were always my favorite, like a friend one looks forward to chumming with while on holiday, counting down the days until you arrived. Hoping when you did that this time you would stay longer, perhaps never leave at all. But time and again you spin me through your whirlwind of excitement, careless of time, oh so fleeting, careless that Summer's magnificent concerto is nearing its finale.
I regret to say, my dear, that you behave rather like a rogue, yet despite this I will leave off reprimanding you for it. Even if I could find the proper words with which to scold you I know it would do no good, for you would take them lightly, with a giggle and a wink, and be off again in twirls. Perhaps it is this very roguishness that allows me to pardon you again year after year. Perhaps it makes you somehow, in spite of your foolishness, endearing, a quality I have commonly found among most rogues of my acquaintance.