Dear Old Dead July Poem by M. A 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 is my weather vane.
spins out of my control
My sundial has been turned over.
Year on 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.