Sick of Nothing New

I am July’s child, against my will.

I wear its sweet heaviness,

a perfume that accompanies me

throughout the seasons that I love better,

my limbs ever oppressed by the languidity

I spend all year dreading.

In the rare moments when I am not slow and care-laden,

my temper bursts forth,

with all the sudden ephemeral rage of a summer storm

before sinking back into the melancholy humidity.

The cicadas, the thunder, the happy birthday wishes—

they all pose the same question:

another year gone,

and what have you done?