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 -
indelible
in the release of autumn leaves
that swirl, brilliant, at your feet.
Oh my wow, Erin!
ReplyDeleteHow beautifully you equate the butterfly and leaf colors.
Attempting to create friction, just such a neat thought.
Brazen autumn indeed.
Thanks for this very good poem.
(Sorry about your migraine.)