Little Butterfly Stories

M(r)s. Mountain Skies fills her breath with
cold, dead butterflies. Like a chimney stack,
blowing off her purple back is that memory she left
when the winter came, currently sipping away
at a blue river bank--in a large enough city
that only she could relate.

(Can you escape?)

So I stand beside it, with tree-trunk arms
I can barely touch the stony floor of that rushing
flood-of-a-fountain. With eyes shut tight,
I can feel again the hushness of her hues, those
peaks and the crisp perfume underneath
that blanket of ice sheet.




And to be still.
And to be absolutely still.
It's a skill.




My charm is lacking, but my honey bees
know when to bring me to her,
leaf by leaf,
broken, maybe,
but happy



listening to all your butterfly stories.