September 20, 2016 § 2 Comments




It stirred between the folds of the curtains the day I left the heating on. The red admiral flew circles around the orb of my japanese lantern – but it was not the sun. It settled on the painting of red and blue and green – but it was not a nectar garden. It flew again and again at the window – but it did not feel the light of spring.

It would have stayed forever on that cold pane. I opened the window. The butterfly flew towards the full moon rising over the oaks – already rimed with frost.



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