on the granite stone
 
my father’s name grows fainter—
 
tattered butterfly

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Little granddaughter,
 
the butterfly on your nose
 
thinks you’re a flower!

 
 
 

Perhaps more coffee
 
will bring you into focus,
 
yellow butterfly.

 
 
 

Yellow butterfly,
 
in the telling of your tale
 
the old man falters.

 
 
 

What would you do, crow,
 
without this white butterfly
 
for your midday snack?

 
 
 

One white butterfly
 
joins three azure ones feasting
 
on a yellow rose.

 
 
 

The first snow flurry,
 
butterfly on my lilac,
 
will come much too soon.