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,
and so I say goodbye to my July,
the month I love the most. Adieu!
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.