The Thirteenth of August

poems from the north, day 10

Question Mark butterfly — photo, my own

We can fly, yet our return’s
an inevitable truth.
Respite, brief.

For days, slow and steady rain
drips commas in window frames
of my mind.

Emotional investments
stop by to check balances
frequently.

Some days, I latch doors shut to
ignore the congregation
formed outside.

On others, they’re wide open.
I make bets I have no clue
how to cash.

Rain’s a forgiving master.
She paints up pink thoughts to
tickle necks,

Sharpens claws of beasts that tap
me back into beady-eyed
realism.

Patience is her looking glass.
Magic’s golden luster slides
from nymph wings,

giving away sought answers
with one overwintered flap —
Poof! She’s gone.