Wayward Emigres

Far from the placid river Hwai,
An autumn olive sways in summer glade.
The azure sky's beauty to deny,
With lithe arms adorned in rustling silver and jade.
Come fall, and ruby brooches of berries bloom,
For the chirping finches and sparrows of noon.
Yet we, guardians of the native aura,
Fear this dryad, for her unchained diaspora.

Away from Honshu's misty slopes and cliffs,
Honeysuckle vines shade an astray kid;
Ethereal perfumes of honey and mystery our gifts,
Given by temperate man's living dream of orchid.
The ivory blossoms, for buzzing bees and I,
Pour out the ambrosia--summer's sugar-wine;
But they, to our dismay, overwhelm oak as they pursue
An upward path to mother Amaterasu.

Blown from the glistening Rhine and shifting dunes of Tripoli,
Starlings clad in the iridescent plumes of spring
Sing in chorus a sonnet resounding in sweet tseerees,
And then don speckles for what winter will bring.
Together bound by a timeless, exotic chant,
They even dare master the robin's melodious cant.
Proud, unyielding to our vigilant and insular cry,
They refuse the nostalgic call of the Lorelei.

I have wondered at a world such as ours,
Where the fairest often come from afar
To be met by hearts ferrous and hard,
Which strive to turn the fresh vintage sour.
Though harried-down through the days,
As mirrors betraying our wounds and wants within,
Or as targets to punish for our occult sins;
I shall savor their sight always, these wayward emigres.