Once with astonishment
I stole a butterfly
from the end
of summer.
I only meant
to borrow her
admire her
the miracle of her
smeared clumsily
across my child's hand
so that I could not
return her
to what little was left
of summer
leaving a jagged hole
in the time of the sky
where she should have
been
a box
empty of its matches
served as a makeshift
coffin
matches stuck in
fresh earth
like little red-headed
flowers
blazing all at once
her funeral pyre.
Often I steal
back to that moment
cut out of summer
the empty place she left
in me
seeing clearly
the butterfly shape
cut awkwardly
out of time
jagged at the edges
my mind seeing beyond
into the infinity of death
hoping her ghost
can forgive me.
Dónall Dempsey
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/end-of-summer-for-scareltt/
