Butterfly Watching

It's early yet. So far this spring, I've seen
some little household moths and one
brave fritillary at Alberta Park.
The pupae that the caterpillars spun
and hung from branches in the days between
the autumn's last light and the winter's dark
are mostly still unopened, presents wrapped
in precious stuff. When summer tears the silk
they'll come: the black-and-yellow scalloped shapes
whose shadows interlocked and overlapped
against the unmarked linen of the drapes
that hung as cool and pale as mother's milk
that night among the February gales,
the night I dreamed a flight of swallowtails.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside