Quid loqueris, mockingbird?

         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.


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