Because it's summer

Perhaps the poem should be in the middle as it's the central point of the narrative. However, it was also the genesis for the idea, the Big Bang, to put two seemingly disparate ideas together. Remember, when reading poetry it's best to use a soft soothing internal voice, those of Garrison Keillor or DFW.

Mother, Summer, I by Philip Larkin

My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

The man himself:

“A girl in a bikini is like having a loaded pistol on your coffee table — there’s nothing wrong with them, but it’s hard to stop thinking about it.” — Garrison Keillor

Poetry:

I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips. ~Violette Leduc,

Summer truths for teenaged boys and homeowners.

A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken. ~James Dent

A deep and abiding truth in and of itself:

Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability. ~Sam Keen

Ah, the soul finds its rest:

Heat, ma'am! it was so dreadful here, that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones. ~Sydney Smith, Lady Holland's Memoir

Dear sir Lubbock, the mere inclusion of waste of time seems a discredit, summer is not worthy of its inclusion:

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. ~John Lubbock

Depends on the heat and humidity Mr. James:

Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language. ~Henry James

Somewhere a Bronte sister has something to say:

"He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly." Emily Bronte Wuthering Heights

For me, summer is the only season. When it passes, I write it letters for nine months from dimly lit rooms begging it to return by the next train.