Two Blue Spots On The Tip Of Her Wing
It is not often when a butterfly snaps my attention.
I'm a busy man, lots on the go, assessing business.
On the concrete steps up from the haunted crosswalk
in a muckity-muck neighborhood, a monarch sets
upon an azalea and winks her honey-molasses wings.
I peer in close, drink a rootbeer, and open up to an afternoon
underneath a breeze, a few garry oak lording over pebbles
and a tabby cat in the grass. I'm reminded of a dead woman
who dreamed of work in the afterlife, designing wings
on flying things. I knew her well enough to read the pollen, dust,
the ribs in this butterfly's wings. I read them and she sings:
grandson, you'll never know if I jumped, or if I fell.
it's a good kind of cheese though, like an aged cheddar, or brie.
Posted by: joy at June 28, 2005 5:16 PM