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In the Spring he, my husband,
bent weary body across
the waters of his soul
and surrendered;
never to be unseen again.
This was how he came to die.
In the upturned, gentle cage
of his lifeless fist – a butterfly.
At night, lying in bed to stand
at the edge of my dark waters,
I hold the invitation of an orchid to my
chest and listen as the waves collide
against the ivory timber of my ribs.
She chooses instead to alight upon
my barest skin.
Beating delicate wings, paper-thin mosaics,
against my breast to remind my aching
heart of its proper rhythm.
In my quivering breath lies
the beginnings of a tempest.
I say her name until my tongue
can no longer be lifted.
Her footfalls across my neck
until she settles upon my face.
Wings bloom and fall across my eyes.
Winter, I realize, must never touch
her.
I read once, somewhere, in one
life I’ve since left behind,
these creatures taste worlds
through their feet.
And so I spread the flower petals
from the funeral arrangements
over every surface of our home.
When she lands, she
will only ever know
sweetness.
This; our endless Summer.