Grandpa

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Trying to hate July, again I know

It’s been like this every day all month

Today is the 12th reason in a row

Chaos soaking through to choke and steal a breath, harrumph.

 

Then I read Billy Collins, and this new guy Waters

Telling of butterflies and other consanguinities

My friends have birthdays, July’s crimes are not theirs

Although no Mother’s keen for a reprise

 

Smell the fecund rot of the middle month

Can’t see the beans through fog, too wet to cut the hay

Life this full of itself ferments our fruits until they punch

Warming us in winter cold coasting on the sleigh

 

Remind me again of Fall and Spring me back to life

Distract me from this countdown melting in the heat

I’ll choose if I want to forget the cut of Winter’s knife

Watch me carve my memories, which ones will I delete?

 

From this angst that drips in rivers and streams humidity

Makes the molds and fungi get down with their spore

Ferns and forests, weeds and gardens, Grandpa’s gift this summer day?

He takes me by the hand again, we gone fishing by the shore.

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