The Proof

Summer sucks the serenity
out of my sculpture garden.
I throw a tantrum in the fray
and later, beg its pardon.

Nothing blooms like it did in pilgrim times,
especially these stupid rhymes
I’ve been composing
in the compost of my dreams.
The seams are showing signs of wear.

Everything eventually tears, I guess,
though I have to question the necessity.
Everything eventually gets the best of me,
and this I don’t question. In fact,
I’ve always taken this
to be a self-evident truth.

The proof is in the pincers.

-r. miller

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