Quid loqueris, mockingbird?

Mowers have cut summer roadside grasses
And into every thirsty pore and cranny
The warmth of the day will carry 
That sweet fragrance filling our senses
Rhyming without reason
With what cannot fill our lungs or bellies
And to our days cannot long marry
But with the passing of the day also passes
As all things have their season;
So, like the erratic butterfly
We sip and savor our wine merus
Undiluted by immortality
And reach into the stolen fire
Though not to better minds may tell us.