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.
