I get the lonesome blues sometimes
and turn to those who
do not,
like this butterfly, mimicking flowers-on-wings
while sipping the last mead
from the beds' last blooms -
this tender slip of light, so much more rarely seen
in withered late October than in fresh July -
or these rough birds on the roof:
Rooks, with impeccably tough feathers;
eye-balls and beaks and claws of cleverness,
racing from the Rookery for just one thing:
fast food;
and truth to tell: I do not know
why my black heart aches so.
Jacqui Thewless
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mood-swing-6/
