Last Sunday in July

Sun, then not-sun, clouds

then not-clouds,

warm, then not-warm.

This slender land can’t

make up its mind.

Cool breezes,

fungi of every color erupt–

red, colonies of chocolate brown,

or white, something you might

find in your salad.

Not much to do save

listen to Bill Evans ply the piano,

wrestle with the crossword,

turn off the phone.

 

   –Reprinted from Old Frog Pond

2 thoughts on “Last Sunday in July

  1. You are so prolific!  I do enjoy reading your poems, especially about Maryland memories and gardening.

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