by Greg Gregory

Late butterflies
float over cliff meadows by the sea,
over paths we now walk
bordered by rosemary and lavender
scenting the evening air—a decade
since I saw the first one
in meadows of yellow flowers and
sunny grass that risked flight
into a rhapsody of shadows in halflight.
I remember how it turned beautiful
beyond words in the dappled shadows,
and time seem to stand
quite still.

Now, standing here again,
I still see that first one
weaving its path fragile as a dream
through the translucent leaves
as we walk through
the gold light of a low sun,
remembering the flight through
invisible paths, invisible seasons,
invisible years as we both drink
from the sunlit drops on the leaves
clothed in light, clothed in shadows,
luminous as love.

Originally published in The Avocet.


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