At this time of day, this time of year,

the butterfly glows gold in the window of our den

it’s hung by chains, framed, with dust in the old border

and cobwebs strung to the window’s edge

the butterfly is made from pieces of stained glass cut by my parents in the late 70s

and I was there in the shop with all the colored bits you’d need for lamps in boxes

when they got their supplies

and I remember the smell of the lead from their soldering gun

and the frustration as they toiled over it, their first

and when they separated maybe it was too hard for them to keep

and so it came to me,

and now it’s too hard for me to ever lose.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: , , , , , ,

3 replies

  1. That’s nostalgic, brings back a memory of a less sophisticated piece my Mom did in a senior center way back when. Interesting, those little triggers.

    Liked by 1 person

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