A mourning cloak butterfly circles the porch and yard three times, going behind my chair, including me in whatever it means to outline.
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A mourning cloak butterfly circles the porch and yard three times, going behind my chair, including me in whatever it means to outline.
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OMEN
A papillon with the mourning cloak
bodes grief; leave it free to flit from
whence it came to where it goes.
Capture it, and you become a gaoler
of the ghost it carries from unknown
gardens, uncharted lanes, lost zones:
Mark how it circled you thrice before
alighting on your chair not your tea cup
where it is moist and of considerable
comfort. Let it leave its yet undelivered
message: a brew of auguries and omens
from the cocoons of the netherworld.
Do I scare you with this ghoulish rant?
Or shall I leave you to scare yourself with
your own disembodied yearnings?
Ah, but beware my morning porch friend,
beauty, wherever you find it, is an omen.
—Albert B. Casuga
05-28-11
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