The year’s first rains would force out
The red velvet mites from the earth.
We loved to feel their velvety backs
With our kid fingers and keep them
In finely labelled match box houses.
We tried to side-step velvet hordes
In their procession to the mountains
But we would not know how many
We squished under inadvertent feet.
The little guys made no dying noises
Their velvets soon turning mud rags.
A day this way or that seemed to make
No difference to essential transience.
Sappho, spelled (in the dialect spoken by the poet) Psappho, (born c. 610, Lesbos, Greece — died c. 570 BCE). A lyric poet greatly admired in all ages for the beauty of her writing style.
Her language contains elements from Aeolic vernacular and poetic tradition, with traces of epic vocabulary familiar to readers of Homer. She has the ability to judge critically her own ecstasies and grief, and her emotions lose nothing of their force by being recollected in tranquillity.
Designed with WordPress
Nature Poetry 
Leave a comment