all but muddied

in the most wonderful remorse
the words spoken run their course
coarse the meanings fall between
the dirt that rains have all but muddied
actions speak louder when sullied
dry wit finds oppressive days
sad to see the crab scurry away
the end of her moon baths tug
quietly quick to clip her claw
against her lip
since June left hurriedly
done with the sun suddenly
about to change abruptly
the mums cannot lift their
white spiked heads
lazy Susan’s lay down in their beds
and nothing can be done with
roses sweltering as hydrangea keel
over and die in the very hot month
of July.

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