the oak leaves have turned red,
soon to fall and mulch underfoot.
was i just a leaf to you?
look, Persephone’s mother weeps
and the whole earth grows cold.
you can only feel sadness if its poetry suits
the strings of your lyre.
so Orpheus, sing
for the living in spring.
poetry is of no use to the dead.
Jacob Dimpsey writes because “Someone, somewhere out there, is listening.”