There will be no more butterflies.
The wind’s turned cold again,
with the rattle of dried baby’s breath
and limbs that scrape together
in an effort to create
warmth from friction.
But the chill of another brazen fall
cannot be swept away like
so much leaf-litter refuse.
There will be no more butterflies
but their colors are permanent -
in the release of autumn leaves
that swirl, brilliant, at your feet.