Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Dirge









                        — Inspired by the poem "Elegy" by Edna St. Vincent Millay




The clattering of leaves in the lane is distracting,
such savage beauty untamed - 
their kinetic dance unravels maudlin moments of clarity.

The shriveling bud on the vine
and its unconscionable behavior surges,
both agile and aggrieved.

There is such sparse shelter from these sorrows
we must bear with alacrity and grace (in spite of our wanton desires), 
gazing through unshuttered windows as life swells,
its variant rhythms beneath our wafting hands, 
our decrepit eyes become fluent.  

Intrepid memories of nesting grow mournful 
with scattered emptiness. 

Cicadas will hymn their quiet way across the horizon,
leaving brown crusted shells behind, 
clinging to bark of ancient trees.

Mournful sounds straggle, 
a negligible approach to dauntless spectres, 
these cumulative slices of severed life.

They strike a clamorous covenant, 
a rustic disintegration, 
a dire and dazzling demise.

Frigid bones, fragrant with translucent solemnity,
ease into somber, indiscriminate shrouds 
engulfing spirits that would rise, unbound, 
if we would only learn to let them go 
without leaning too hard upon the fresh, overturned soil - 

a mere brilliance of autumn, ripened and shimmering,
then withered beneath the bough.