The Ruby Throated Hummingbirds Are Gone

They've flown south now

and one Great Egret fishes the pond

as broad-winged hawks begin their migrations,

kenneling on thermal currents of wind

off above yellowing mountains.

Now, snakeweed blooms along the trail choking

white and purple asters. A few bleeding

leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison

Ivy turns red with warning.

My eighty-three-year-old mother still argues

with my father, twelve years dead. Their hatred

reverberates in a back room

of my head, rattling memories of my lonely childhood.

Their loathing for each other

colors all my days with pain. I loved him

because he loved me best, but I look like her,

my face and spirit tear at each other.

Am I the child of hate?

A wounded love sprouts like a weed

from watery depths, uncultivated,

flowers, white and purple, bloom,

even in these days of dying leaves.

Beyond winter,

no one grieves.