I live in a butterfly house,
scrappy yellow wings on every surface,
making the place untidy.
I shoo them away, but they’re not scared
They soon return,
their sticky feet clinging to all manner
I need them,
for days when this is a thingummy,
and that a watchamacallit.
I always managed before.
I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.
The reflection that I see is still me,
but I don’t remember my lines.
One thing they forgot,
no butterfly on you.
Husband, lover, friend;
soon to be misty stranger.
Maybe they did it on purpose so you would
that when I needed it
you had to let hope go.
©2011 Sherri Turner
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