' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' End Of Summer(For Scareltt)

Once with astonishment I stole a butterfly from the end of summer. I only meant to borrow her admire her the miracle of her smeared clumsily across my child's hand so that I could not return her to what little was left of summer leaving a jagged hole in the time of the sky where she should have been a box empty of its matches served as a makeshift coffin matches stuck in fresh earth like little red-headed flowers blazing all at once her funeral pyre. Often I steal back to that moment cut out of summer the empty place she left in me seeing clearly the butterfly shape cut awkwardly out of time jagged at the edges my mind seeing beyond into the infinity of death hoping her ghost can forgive me.