The tiger swallowtails eluded me
As a boy, lunging at them with my net.
Yet my daughter once put out a finger
And one landed like a bird on a tree.
She held it up as though she’d found a pet,
And cried “Come back!” when it didn’t linger.
It’s mid-September and growing colder.
I no longer wish to catch butterflies.
I take spiders outdoors (as I grow older)
And resent it when a cicada dies.
Why did I let June’s thick light disappear,
Leaving illumination of each sere
Spot on each turning leaf perfectly clear?
And don’t tell me it happens every year.
