If for no other reason than popular demand, summer is rosé season.

These wines, once pitilessly disparaged as dull and anemic, have been hotter than July for a decade, a climatic shift that shows no signs of letting up. In the past few months, three books on rosé have been published, possibly doubling the number of volumes on rosé in all of time.

As if to cement rosé’s evolution from trend to institution, Vogue now suggests that the wine has oversaturated the summer market and is a fashionable bubble ready to burst.

I will skip the debate over pink wine’s cultural meaning. Speaking strictly from a wine point of view, when rosé crossed over to become a symbol of pleasurable summer living, it was time to beware.

The wine industry sought to capitalize on rosé’s popularity by making more of it. A lot more of it. Much of it is pretty dreadful, sped along the assembly line to be ready by late spring, yet short-lived enough to be dead by the end of summer. Ephemeral, but such pretty colors.