Summer Butterflies

“But words,” she said. “They
Don’t mean anything at all.
They flutter around
And weave patterns through our days,
Like the too brief lives
Of bright summer butterflies.
There, and then they’re gone
As autumn wraps us up tight
Against harsh winter.”

Then, one day, she too was gone,
Like last summer, like
Those brilliant butterflies,
Without a single good-bye.