White Butterflies
When I think of you a white butterfly appears,
perching on leaves of a fresh patch of mint, crawling
among the rows of herbs.
Sometimes it flies off as swiftly as it flew in and
simply leaves me with a smile and a warm set of
fine memories to last.
You stayed for eight decades (butterflies never do) yet
our time together seems shorter than it was, if
measured by a guilty heart.
The fleeting hugs and kisses goodbye on your almost bare
wisps of thinned gray, cloaked with the musty smell of the old
blue cap that covered your head.
Funny how I now wish I held you longer instead
of holding my breath each time I paid you
my respects as a daughter.
Longer than the time I stood by and cried at the cold
truth of your still warm but lifeless facade
on a frigid bed of steel.
