Butterfly

The trees play in early fall breeze,
starting to turn color
in promise of their annual
fatal beauty:
Indian summer.
Sitting on my porch
I seek to immolate
my foul temper
with a good cigar and a good beer;
fighting my surroundings
with alcoholic bluster
and angry futile billows
against a crystal blue sky.
I love the colors breaking
slowly from their green captivity
and mourn the future chilly barrenness
they prophesy.

A butterfly passes by,
orange and black,
wandering far from the flowers
in its curiosity.
I track its flight
trying to empty
the bitter river
flooding my heart.

Landing on my knee,
it sits,
I still myself
reluctant to give up its company,
letting my cigar grow grey
as the butterfly teases my jeans.
The strong western breeze
is the only thing moving
other than its wings.
I call them gossamer
although the term’s
overused.

In a whisper,
it remembers another errand
and flits off,
reminding me that there is
pure timeless beauty
that I’ve forgotten,
and the bitter waters
evaporate
in the faux summer day.