The Ruby Throated Hummingbirds Are Gone

They've flown south now and one Great Egret fishes the pond as broad-winged hawks begin their migrations, kenneling on thermal currents of wind off above yellowing mountains. Now, snakeweed blooms along the trail choking white and purple asters. A few bleeding leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison Ivy turns red with warning. My eighty-three-year-old mother still argues with my father, twelve years dead. Their hatred reverberates in a back room of my head, rattling memories of my lonely childhood. Their loathing for each other colors all my days with pain. I loved him because he loved me best, but I look like her, my face and spirit tear at each other. Am I the child of hate? A wounded love sprouts like a weed from watery depths, uncultivated, flowers, white and purple, bloom, even in these days of dying leaves. Beyond winter, no one grieves.