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The Weight Of The Butterfly Flower
The flowering peach, a daughter's bloom, each February she lived in tiny pink bud. Her tree fed my memory, flitted across my vision with nectar so sweet with sorrow that the sky wept. Oh, such weight the delicate pink butterfly flower held. It took her place somehow and lived for her each year. A tree-gift from the fluttering girls and boys of second grade, now almost middle aged with children named Michelle, perhaps.
She will always be eight, the bright and moving child of my youth, so spark and full of fire. The first that captured my heart and held it, she holds it still. She died again this fall, Michelle, her leaves turned and bid a final tremble to the ground. The tree no longer lives, just a sentinel stark and bleak its gamine trunk. But under the canopy that burned my heart again from brown and rotting leaves emerges the everlasting circle of creation, a fragile new beginning strong with claims of yes.
