Like a slattern in a string bikini,
Stretch marks bared to the public,
So does July show her wares
If she is scorned.
Sprawling, ugly, no doubt in heat,
An old sow past her prime
All who pass her by.
Any who see Demeter
In each summer day
Have not seen her dark side,
When men refuse to play.
She is full of hot wrath,
If unspent for weeks on end.
Or cold doldrums, when denied:
Raw, frigid mistress of grey.
Yet, in a good year, she might
Swing Sun’s brazen shield
High above, shedding welcome beams,
And let us bask in its bright rays.
July, you sometime traitor,
When we expect you to behave,
Spend promises of warm weather,
No doubt you demur on that alone.
We await your pleasure,
As brides gnaw manicured nails in
Helpless wonderment at your
Month of Caesar, choose one attitude or the other!
Either thirty-one days of rain-soaked sulking
Or, better, allow one of selfless, sun-baked joy…
This might even please poor you!
I was very hot and sick of the stickiness of July, which can also seem like March, at least in New England. She also reminded me of a woman who shall remain nameless...for now.