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.
“The Ruby Throated Hummingbirds Are Gone,” from Word Wound and Water Flowers: Poems, by Purdue University Press. Copyright 2005 Daniella Gioseffi. Permission granted by the author.
