Butterfly

A Poem

This afternoon the wind takes leaves and sunset-colored petals for a ride. The desert is scattering jewels before it storms, and my daughter leaves my lap to follow laughing; what her eyes cannot resist at this age, neither can her tiny fingers, legs, her wild-born spirit.

To a friend’s question of whether we plan more children I confess uncertainty, reply that there is still perhaps a year or two to decide. And, watching my child chase a butterfly through blowing branches, I remember when I thought that was a long time.