from A Dearth of Prose
We are the men who,
on an august winter day
would sally round the sun in verse
than go outside;
with parchment and paper
would scroll up heavens
to mine rocks instead.
Persephone is superfluous
when men are dancing elegies,
and calling out the diocese
for curing all their obsequies!
I remember autumn - dreary day,
but anticipating the cherry blossom:
the cathedral swept of her red, white, and gold
from leaded windows as the bishop sings.
The dust boy sweeps images into the street,
and every byway is littered with Saint John.
In spring is something sacred also,
when autumn desire fades at last,
and winter eats her up, and spring resumes.
"A real Easter sun," it is,
and she gives birth to flowers:
and lilies in full swell.
But Hades, he is not long unpresent,
a forked hand in the cracks of May;
and chants in the poppies
until we all fall down.
Maybe he teaches us scrapbooking;
to pluck the roses while we may,
and make Nefertiti of them.
'Beauty doesn't last forever.'
Enshrine the idol in the eye.
O Persephone, the irises live ever
in your collage.