Butterfly
Butterfly, the wind blows sea—ward,
strong beyond the garden—wall!
Butterfly, why do you settle on my
shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe,
Lifting your veined wings, lifting them?
big white butterfly!
Already it is October, and the wind
blows strong to the sea
from the hills where snow must have
fallen, the wind is polished with
snow.
Here in the garden, with red
geraniums, it is warm, it is warm
but the wind blows strong to sea—ward,
white butterfly, content on my shoe!
Will you go, will you go from my warm
house?
Will you climb on your big soft wings,
black—dotted,
as up an invisible rainbow, an arch
till the wind slides you sheer from the
arch—crest
and in a strange level fluttering you go
out to sea—ward, white speck!
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