Only In Autumn 2
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The last butterfly of the season, she flies alone. I wait, each summer, for this solid yellow harbinger of death.
Autumn’s blessing comes
into view, soft
as a caressing breeze,
or a leaf floating through
on its dying wheeze.
When in flight,
a bright yellow flip
prepares to light
on a blossom’s lip
Not shapely or colorful
as others are classed,
it appears late, fills my plate,
after those have passed.
Tiny yellow butterfly
comes winging by
with late summer joy,
a soft contented sigh.
Summer’s swan song.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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