Left the ponder his mortality,
the butterfly flutters by,
and lights upon a weary flower,
wilted, waning, less than dapper,
(she must be depressed)
and starts sipping nectar,
to drown his sorrows (no doubt),
concerning the doom that is surely close at hand.

The flower,
feeling rather used,
sinks lower, looking at the earth,
and checking her stem, says
"Oh my! my stem is so wide!"
She begins to cry,
and the butterfly dies,
with five thousand lights in his eyes.

Passing by,
an Elderly Woman
stoops in silence,
collecting the wind shuddered wings,
snapping the too fat stem,
and smiling
from the sweetness of these breathless
reminders
of whatever it is that makes
Elderly Women smile.

The Sun is a fiend,
and the wind may scream,
but there is no sadness to be seen in dreams.