Thursday, November 15, 2012

Tuesday Poem: An earlier version published by Poetpourri in 1994

 Sculpture by Paul Villinski

Death Called To My Mother

butterfly silent.
Butterflies she loved
and talked about:
their delicacy and color,
their brevity through golden air;
as if the blossoms themselves
had taken flight,
their pollen-rich leaps
from flower to flower,
their nectar-driven reveries.

It was death,
hovering in the garden,
she opened her heart to,
weary as she was of struggling,
and loss after loss, never getting
past the caterpillar's hunger,
over-filling her plate
as if searching for
herself in all that weight.

She didn't know
the word for soul, in Greek,
is the word for butterfly too.

She only knew,
in dreams, they covered her,
like a quilt of shivering wings:
Adonis Blue, Pearly Eye,
Swallowtail, Roadside Skipper.

Come, they whispered.
the chrysalis is waiting.
It’s finally time
for bliss.

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