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, gone fishing by the shore.

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