Would-Be Pastoral Elegy

Spring's back again, riding a surge of death.
My cats, the heralds of the holocaust,
leave lizards underfoot, and birds whose breath
their claws have stopped lied wrapped in Spanish moss
outside the door. The moth and dragonfly
now writhe exhausted in the spider's web.
But there's an upside too: The bayou's high
and mallard ducks are mating, neb to neb.
On cultivated ground, the golden wound
of roses is an ever-new surprise,
and last year's caterpillars, long cocooned,
are winging toward the hedge as butterflies.
This resurrection, though, is not for men.
We're annuals. We don't come up again.

Copyright © 2005 Gail White All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission