Small white butterflies like summer snowflakes
fall and flutter;
I swerve to miss them
on bike
on foot
in my car.
They are on their way, too,
but they will not stop.
No rest for the winged.
They float and flutter and fling themselves on flowers like desperate lovers;
weave between sycamores like playful youth,
lilt and jump as though on a string
until the fall comes and the wind changes direction,
carries them out of town
to make way for the season of moths--
when bikes rest
feet sink deep in boots
cars make warm caves
And butterflies sleep.
-Hope Horner, 2014
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote
Feel free to post, forward and share!
For offline publishing contact author on gmail at hopeh1122
Posts
