The weeks are, each one, like a giant to-do list. We check those things off and keep it moving. The pleasantness of flexible summer days is gone - there is no time to be flexible. The work must get done and the dark of each night comes sooner and sooner to close out each day.
Little think'st thou, poor flower,
Whom I've watch'd six or seven days,
And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour
Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,
Little think'st thou,
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall
To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.
- from The Blossom, John Donne