Like a black brushstroke poised on a gleaming reed,
an afterthought of the rising sun
bending bow-like over glass,
we’re a black butterfly, beloved One,
one black wing your death, the other mine,
the butterfly weaving a line
over water – till weaver
disappears, and only the Loving One
remains, shifting glass and the sun.
Published inMain
Departure of someone loved beautifully and elegantly displayed. Though to the one in pain there’s nothing beautiful or elegant in such. tfs