COME DOWN Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown far to the lees as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your hearts will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. MAYFLIES These standing stones have stood the test of time but who are you and what are you and why? As brief as mist, as transient, as pale ... Inconsequential mayfly! Perhaps the thought of love inspired hope? Do midges love? Do stars bend down to see? Do gods commend the kindnesses of ants to aphids? Does one eel impress the sea? Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do the stars regret the glow worm’s stellar mimicry the day it dies? Does not the world grind on as if it’s no great matter, not to be? Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose. And yet somehow you’re everything to me. (Originally published by Clementine Unbound) MY FORTY-NINTH YEAR My forty-ninth year and the dew remembers how brightly it glistened encrusting September: one frozen September when hawks ruled the sky and death fell on wings with a shrill, keening cry. My forty-ninth year, and still I recall the weavings and windings of childhood, of fall: of fall enigmatic, resplendent, yet sere*... though vibrant the herald of death drawing near. My forty-ninth year and now often I've thought on the course of a lifetime, the meaning of autumn: the cycle of autumn with winter to come, of aging and death and rebirth ... on and on. * Dry or withered
Michael R. Burch’s poems have been published by hundreds of literary journals, taught in high schools and colleges, translated into fourteen languages, incorporated into three plays and two operas, and set to music by seventeen composers.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL