the butterfly angel
in this misty haven from an arctic wind
is the butterfly garden, with wings as
light as flakes, brushing shades of
roses, goldenrods, lilacs, and daffodils
against a frosted canvas window,
you wear your grandpa’s cap,
faded gray and frayed by winters past,
the stale cold running through you even
now, four winters since his death.
a swallowtail’s glass-stained wings
fold like origami, perches on
your cap and stays as if glued by
nectar as you move; your
laughter bursts like the beach sun.
when it’s time to leave behind your
butterfly in our spring mirage, and return
to snow-capped sidewalks and streets,
you ask me if butterflies are angels,
like the legend says. i see your grandpa
in your dimpled smile and nod.
Shelly Blankman and her husband, Jon, are empty-nesters who live in Columbia, Maryland with their 4 cat rescues. They have two sons Richard, 31, of New York, and Joshua, 30, of San Antonio. Shelly's first love has always been poetry. Her poetry has been published by Ekphrastic: writing and art on art and writing as well as Visual Verse, Silver Birch Press, and Verse-Virtual.