Anchored to a spent daisy

in the forge of continuous summer,

an orange & black speckled butterfly

had spun her silk pad,

had shed caterpillar skin,

had burst capsuled chrysalis,

and I named her Whitman & water & wind.

Her forelegs, vestigial,

held close to her body,

and I named her fish & sparrow,

and when she lifted

with a sound of light rain,

she flew beyond milkweed stalks,

above a caution sign

and grooved pavement,

unbent, unbridled,

and I named her otter & fire.

And when she rose

among asters & comets


when she stroked through cloudless blue

unclosed, unbidden,

I named her unmechanical.

Now I call her mist & dawn.


I looked, knowing her gone,

a pool of blue shade in her place.