THE BUTTERFLY

The golden weekend was leaves falling
In the sunlight

Of your touch and a warm breeze smiling
On us

With gentle, loving warmth – encircling,
Wiping out the fog: the gloom in the
Hurt of me.

Long remembering, yet past goodbye,
But the essence of you lives inside
The memory bank of life and me,
And the smiles, the tender touch of life.

So come again, bright butterfly,
Bright December beckons – Fall is past
And November memories not yet dead,
But full of wispy, willowing love songs
Of mind,

To see me
And soul, and belonging and touching -
Sweet, this surrender of hearts over mind,
To soft, gentle landings rained on hungry
Lips wrapped in the wings of you.

—Lois Fowler Barrett 1979