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Just a Few
Butterflies

Down in the Dirt, v193 (the 3/22 Issue)



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Just a Few Butterflies

Tom Squitieri

It is still the right dusk, the soft sounds of reality
The harsh human sounds are tired and faint, and far away
Wisely, I sit and wait.

No fireflies arrive. It is still their stage, though,
And I need to see them again
Right now
It is how dusk tells you the real time

If I see the butterflies during the day, I smile
The plantings make them feel welcome and they come
With their freedom and wisdom
Makes me laugh as I think
For no logical reason,
the cliche of
“What would you tell your younger self?”
And you realize you cannot
Just as dawn is a silent cousin to dusk
So too is the wisdom we acquire
Through our days fleeting for the next moments
leaving our memory for good

Only a morning rain can visibly nourish through the day
While the sun, the arbitrator of dusk and dawn,
silently teaches to our blindness.

The Good Rain does come
and we flow fully into each other
with each other.
the wind moves your covering,
my eyes unfasten the rest,
you open your eyes
to what you have longed for, and now it is here.
The derecho of me, all just for you.

I have stopped,
to look fully at you and smile.
like hot tasty coffee consumed,
your warmth expanding throughout me

 
the morning says it will remain dark longer,
to permit my words and photos to shine for you,
just you, in primacy

Stretch the legs to the sun,
ideally on the sand
There is no better place

Just a few butterflies,
in this summer of tomorrow
Before the fall of harkening
The cold to come
No fireflies now
Once again, too late
Only the sparks of that knowledge
that cannot be passed back in time
And could our younger self’s ears
Even hear what we say
Or would the pitch be in an
Unknown language or frequency?

The evening sky mirrored
the hope of morning,
tasked by the ferocity
of the pride of a setting sun,
softened by the love of the message
it was offering

Tonight, I saw that message
it was a blue in the sky I had never seen before
heralded by the other colors framed, soft in their hands
Extending to me
The last roundup
It is time to walk to that cloud



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