There is a stillness and heaviness of air
in the lazy drips of last long days
in the teetering weeks that lead to autumn.
Sweetness is sharpest before apples sour
and sky is heaviest,
overfilled with the growing we have done,
humid with clouds of our hot breath,
tired as we are tired from trying to earn the blessings of the sun
exposed summer-long in the clarity of its burning eye
when we too are meant to be our greatest, our most aflame.
Butterflies laze on the heights
of brightest flowers that mirror their pigments
easing to rest now, their glory told,
only occasionally fanning their wings,
as though heat subsides,
to pay final visits to blooms they bloomed with,
drifting gently about their patch of meadow
in hazy circles from nectar to nectar
with the casual, melancholy trust
of old friends soon to part,
as family of their flutter farewell petals of their own.
It is as though
this last dance of the butterflies
turns the seasons,
the world’s colours from green to gold.