Eric Attica
Amid the throngs of late, busy people
In the shade of a silent tree
I stopped to talk to a girl
with a butterfly on her finger.
(Enormous, with sheets of gold for wings,
and still as the sun.)
I asked, where did you find it?
She said, I raised it myself
And yesterday it was a caterpillar.
The time of year when growth and death Together bloom in abject breath When teardrops nourish rusted leaves And fresh hope soars on withered wings When silent innocence expires And making camp means setting fire. Yet scorched remains of ashen times Are tender starts to second tries That seem, in future memory, The priceless griefs of autumn spring.
A poem about decisions, regrets, and letting go. ∎