LAST LONELY FLIGHT

Butterflies that flew in 1932
still held in that summer

by the exquisitely neat calligraphy
& cruel glinting pin.

I wipe the dust from the glass
& they gleam as if they still dream

of being alive.

i smash the glass
clutch them in my hand & climb

from attic to roof & slowly

drawing myself up to
my full height

release them back into time
smile as they flutter in the summer breeze

of then & now
their dead eyes taking it all in

clouds...trees...skies

their one last lonely flight
back into nothingness