Dear Old Dead July Poem by Mark Heathcote

Dear old dead July, now it's August
you make me want to die
seasonal depressions they're here again
they're here all over again.

Here, my weather vane
spins out of my control
my sundial has been turned over
year after year, now I no longer want to cry.

Dear old dead July, now it's August
you make me want to lie down and die
you make me want to weep, weep
like a willow longing to sleep.

My old house of golden corn
is now a shelled-out shell of an acorn.
The moon's darkness is bliss
I breathe it back into my lungs, a foggy, wet kiss.

Dear old dead July, now it's August
you make me want to die
curl, twirl crisp and crackle into the dust
oh, turn back time, turn back August.