we
have become the lantern
striking in the dark
and the butterfly
that drifts delicately,
minutes do not serve
as palanquins holding thoughts
filled with your semi-sweet laughter
and my burning
seemed too brilliant
for your soul's eyes to find me
in this orchard
created by our conversations
like they used to.
you don't fly this way
as much anymore
and i no longer strain
to view what Calliope has left
in lemon ochre and silk
instead i stretch forth
into dusk's arms
and find that you have added to the glow
before taking your leave
other butterflies
have not been so considerate
in their flight.
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