The Wayward Butterfly

The Wayward Butterfly An armoire stands at the end of my room, And under the edge for days, What looked like a rolled dead leaf Continued to grab my gaze. Finally, annoyed enough at myself I got up from my easy chair, I picked up that dried bit of mysterious stuff, To see what really was there. I held the object in my palm, And then tears began to fall, For the brown ragged thing was a butterfly, Lost from the outdoor wall. He had once been a beauty of exquisite rust Dots patterning his so fragile wings, And somehow, I’ll miss him with buried grief For all the losses this aging life brings.