Butterflies

you died doing what you loved,

as horrific as that probably was,

your last words a pulpit oration

for all in attendance to surely remember,

tearing back both bush and brush,

the pallbearers cleared their path,

a narrowed dirt road the only obstacle

in the way of your six feet under sanctuary,

scattered treks then illuminated the way –

a stoic march to the resting place,

cawing birds hushed their songs,

whistling winds ceased their shrieks,

all was still aside from the steady steps

putting you at rest,

overhead –

yellow-and-black flecked wings

fluttered like heartbeats

until they were still, landing,

perched upon the clever incline of my nose,

just as fleetingly as it was there,

it was no longer,

the mourners parted ways and bid their adieus,

grievances paid like a monthly tithe,

just as fleetingly as they were there,

they were no longer,

it is said that the Tiger Swallowtail is

native to the East,

it is ironic, then,

that you always wanted to visit Israel

but never did.