October Girl

In a season of decline, one lone butterfly

Emerges anew--apart from the grubby masses,

Consuming caterpillars--gazes down to espy

What's left behind; amid flowers, holds classes

For the leaf-eaters yet to turn new ones.

In a season of decline, one lone professor

Sets down the king's pen, which writ collegiate

Canon, and inspects the peasant's pencil, for

Its words reached each fallen mind by a secret

Leading down hidden paths, low roads to heaven.

Yet the pencil marks are rubbed out by erasers,

Washed away by the Lethe, trampled by marching

Militants and machines, left in old dressers,

Written over by dissectors of a butterfly wing,

Leaving an empty cocoon without mystery.

Alas, my car swiped her, a windshield wiper

Swept her aside. It's dangerous beyond the green

Safety of the veiled wood. But I'll remember

The flourish of her patterns in deep dreams.

Wait! She flutters off! There goes my bookmark!

Go back