the July bells ringing at twelve today I hear,
lulling sirens throwing their soft voices,
with much foresight for that moment which arises with a need
to blare and scare the people from their sleep.
they hear these chimes and for them it celebrates –

the start of July where revival rings in, or
the time to align the hands on their clocks to twelve, or
the moment their paychecks come rolling in richly, or
merely a deviance from their rigid routines.

the July bells ringing at twelve today I hear,
and for me this celebrates –
the penning of poetry inspired by such bells.

to walk across a street and see:
lined golden bulbs with fixing glow,
and flickering flames from waxy tips,
and lying radiance – worthless stones,
and then to find that no one light
is yours to keep nor yours to lose.

to look across a forest hued:
a hundred golden sun-lit leaves,
that scatter themselves on fresh brown earth,
across a palate of flaunting flowers,
and then to find that no one shade
is yours to keep nor yours to lose.

to read a book from end to end:
and taste that rhythm and rhyme and sound,
then tear its form and see its meaning,
then piece it back with admiration,
and then to find that no one word
is yours to keep nor yours to lose.

to meet again with one another:
and see them age with grey and sorrow,
with merely hope to see tomorrow,
the grains of sand in glass they borrow,
and then to find that no one friend
is yours to keep nor yours to lose.

to venture life and only find, that:
nothing
is yours to keep nor yours to lose.