Written: November 22, 2025,
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I cherish the solemn stillness of the night,
where veils of mist cloak the moon's pale face.
Its threadbare curtain, a tiara slight,
of sanctity and shadowed grace.
There, catharsis prowls in whispered tone,
a voice that has faded yet still unabated.
Though death has seized its throne,
hope's luster gleams, amaranthine, fated.
Wretchedly wilted, the petiole lies,
hubris humbled in dismal decay.
Yet dreams, those viceroys of disguise,
transform burdens into light’s array.
And only sleep, at fate’s silent behest,
Unbinds the soul’s relentless, stubborn chain.
From hecatombs of grief confessed in chest,
To wisteria’s bloom, soft peace regained.
They slip in unnoticed
just below the burning rays of the sun solstice
lighting on the last flowers of summer bare,
sweet nectar wafting in the heavy laden air,
colors brilliant, glowing, coy
orange black monarchs and viceroys,
great spangled fritillary yellows and whites,
tiger swallowtails in yellow black stripes,
California sisters, red admirals, blues, skippers,
silent and stealth like they come on windy clippers
floating and flittering in mid-August dance,
waltzing on the warm light breeze tree branch,
eye-catching, dainty lace winged soarers,
quick and slow in flight flutterers scorers,
enticed by flowered whispers between thorn and nettles
painted ladies hovering in place on petals
mourning cloakers, dark gray stokers with blended color palettes,
rudders navigating windy turns and landings on salads,
southern dogfaces heading south in transition
migratory lives gathering in submission
to climatic phenomena seen on the window pane
tempered by the sun, the surf, and rain
waving goodbye to the northern lights
hello to the southern fields and forests cool nights.
Wafting on winds many miles from home.
Hovering together splashes of black and white.
A Zebra Longwing colony home from the day’s roam,
Oh, how happy I was to see that old familiar sight.
Monarchs and Viceroys dash back and forth.
But Zebra Longwings roost after each days dance.
How did they get here so far north?
Eggs or chrysalises traveled by hurricane, perchance.
The pungent scent of lantana, there nourishment lies.
A delicious yellow and orange feast; oh sight.
The sweet nectar would fill the visiting butterflies.
Thickets and trees were explored, too, with delight.
Gathering at night, hovering, unlike other types.
That nostalgic moment felt so good inside.
Remembering long ago chasing illusive stripes.
Years had passed but butterfly kisses still abide.
© April 11, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: A Butterfly's Trail Of Kisses
Sponsored by: Gail Doyle
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