Where butterflies go when they die
Thinking someplace of peace not wild
Softly floating in the whim
Of a breeze not tearing leaf or wing
The old cigar box where I kept a collection
When I was nine with pin and wing in place
A callus lack I can’t believe was me
Closed that box and left it in the attic free
Until I returned up ladder to the loft
Afraid of what I’d find or what the cost
to find ten pins gathering dust in gleam
No fragrance of spring or wing remained
And then today as if in answer to my question
Long ago asked to some one up in heaven
Where have they gone all color muted frail
when I had placed them so carefully in this cardboard jail
Today
On the front steps of a house in different town
A wing and then another had fallen down
No body held together the colors mighty chorus
But it seems like they were sent this day
with a definite purpose
The question asked so long ago must finally be
That given time an answer comes eventually
I’m saving them the wings like time
With feathers I have many now
Perhaps to test the strength of fragile things
Or more certainly to bless this heart of mine
Sissie, lovely!
ReplyDelete