A hedge trimmer zims and zinns at a lawn,
the night sinks down into an old, slow song—
how many warm nights have there been in July?
Street lights glowing against a steel-gray sky,
children being called home and calling out why—
how many warm nights are there left in July?
Moths fluttering against the darkened screen,
a dog barking long ago, loud, unseen—
how many warm nights have been lost in July?
July, July, the month of youth
but now, to me, the month of truth.
Thus I say goodbye to my July,
the month I love the most.
My wife and I were sitting on our front porch. It was July and dusk was quickly turning into night. She was reading and I was relaxing, thinking of the day spent in the garden and of past summers, when this poem, semi-fashioned, jumped into my head. I grabbed a pen and started jotting down impressions of things I could hear at that moment, as well as the memories that were closing in from all around.
Thank you for reading July. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.