An acrobatic, waspish, wisp

In the whispering current that carries the scent

Of daffodils, tulips and wild hyacinth,

Flits and flutters without concern;

Its hollow rachis filled with flair,

Teasing the breeze through the barbs of its vane

And looping the loop in a figure of eight.

 

No moulted plumage here, I fear

That death gave life to lifeless down;

O’ battle-weary souvenir,

The irony is most profound.

How many borders did you cross?

How many nests were torn and tossed

Before the greatest fight was lost?