West Agate

The disrepair is heavy,
Like one full day of summer, two months early.
Doves plod across the broken roof-tiles. Who knows?
But flowers, small and purple where they shouldn't be,
Call to hummingbird, who never leaves us.
I've named him "Jesus." My son, who reads in the morning,
Calls her "Jill."

Music dies with the man.
Winter really is the end, but only one at a time.
And then the summer rushes in, lauding
The life's work, the legacy only now
Bursting into flower and flame.
Hummingbird has a dream without a name.
I know it.

Copyright © 2006 Donald Revell All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission