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.


Filed under Poetry

2 responses to “July

  1. I like this glad i stumbbled on it – the title caught me because I have a poem named September. I live how simple it is but your words still paint the reader a full vivid picture.