Shadows on the Grass

in the cellar

of my old home,

butterflies

pinned in a cigar box . . .

one by one I let them go

all the bits 

and pieces of myself

I’ve left behind . . .

oak and willow set new buds

before the old leaves fall

folding the map 

with its worn creases 

I follow 

an unknown path . . . 

the shimmer of small wings

striding

toward the winter solstice

arm in arm

with the death crone . . .

flowers spring up at her feet

      ~Ribbons 10:1, Winter 2014