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.
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