Moving On

Over the wood fence into our backyard

a butterfly floats the warm November air,

undaunted by bare branches. It arches

through tunnels of afternoon sun and shade

alternating bright white, spectral.

Our tabby cat, fur thickening

into dark gray clouds

watches and yawns. In the shade

we can feel the cool night descending,

and talk about the house -

who might buy, where we'll go.

The tall birch breathes,

gently shaking a frayed and weathered rope.

In the last sunlit corner of the yard

perfume from a pink rose beckons.

The butterfly drifts in, folds its wings

and sips from summer again.