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Eating popsicles.
In July, wooden sticks, and
even children, melt.

Each frozen chemical treat
a promise of sweet winter.

Grape-flavored drops, so
like the melting icicle
Summer's late thaw.

No more the sound of hooves,
but I hear the ice-cream man.

Notes fall like blossoms,
petals repeating themselves
over and over.

How many times will we hear
"Pop Goes the Weasel?" Too few.

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