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!