04-10-2022, 02:48 AM
A dry but cool wind blows from the south,
tyrant flycatchers feed their young
in the rafter just above my head,
and so I sing of you, O Persephone.
Last years leaves are now refugees
huddled against the conquering green
where the flycatchers hunt living morsels
for their ravenous offspring.
There is always that bitter taste
in this season of your resurrection
amid the replenishing sun and rush
of troubling life at full throttle.
tyrant flycatchers feed their young
in the rafter just above my head,
and so I sing of you, O Persephone.
Last years leaves are now refugees
huddled against the conquering green
where the flycatchers hunt living morsels
for their ravenous offspring.
There is always that bitter taste
in this season of your resurrection
amid the replenishing sun and rush
of troubling life at full throttle.