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July rupa*



The jasmine lingers,
And the garden's unkempt,
As the July sun burns us all dry.
And the dreams come,
And the faces change,
And a branch hangs,
Framed, by the window,
Gently curved,
Reflecting the light.
And the dreams come,
And the dreams get louder,
Demanding, insisting
That they be heard.
And honeysuckle blooms
And the garden is scented
And children’s footsteps
Run and they hide
And everything is thirsty.
And the July sun scorches,
But still we are cold.

And the faces change,
And none are familiar,
And these will change too,
As is the way.
And the roses are tended,
Saved from the bindweed,
Yellow and vibrant,
Roots reaching down.
And the pain never ceases,
Grinding the body down,
And there is no choice left
But to learn to endure.
And the evenings are balmy,
And the moon is radiant,
But behind the tree and rooftop
She is always unseen.

And cobwebs appear,
Between branches and rosebush,
Shimmering softly,
Determined to stay.
And the butterflies come,
Too long without summer,
And crickets, grasshoppers,
Call of their world.
And nothing gets better,
And nothing gets easier,
And that “Things will get easier”
Is just a pretence.
And leaves tipped
With auburn edges
Are calling of autumn,
Calling too soon.

* A rupa is a Buddhist statue or form



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