the dead butterfly parade.

all too often, i find dead butterflies by the side of swamp pike. i collect them and always set them down in the shade on this bent cypress wood foot stool, for some reason i never really put much thought into--- and still don't seem to have the energy to either. sometimes, i don't want reasons. just actions.

and i spilled some poetry, persuaded by reminders.

a thin shell, wings, lyrics

pressed into its profile, the monarch
butterfly is a closed book against tired
pavement. with cars sweeping past

at 45 miles per hour, those papery
wings, they are silent without glory
and tremble of a short history. i cannot 

read her wingspan or her spine when
she is stuck to the ground, that butterfly.
the day's air flattens of her what once

fluttered, tiny toes formerly locked lightly
to pollen spots, and their quiet habit
is quieter still, in an unmoving throw

of orange and black with delicate
flecks of white. but even while dead,
she pulls the sky into her veins.

jrh.

wood and wings. wooden wings. hm.