YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE

A white butterfly. . .

You have come home to dance

on my shoulder, high above daisies

to spin in circles

casting our shadows on a pond

a rendezvous of seasons, and

a landscape covered with snow. . .

You fooled me. 

Your sister’s - sister?

No one noticed when she fell

through ice.

A white picket fence keeps

me away.

I feel your wing’s.

You flutter toward the barn

pass the statue of the 

Blessed Virgin Mary.

We dash to skip over holes

in the floor of the barn.

You grab my hand

we skip over light; reflections on

a wide plank wooden floor.

We pass a broken lantern

red glass shimmers,

and Grandmother’s wedding dress

hung near our homemade stage.

You grab my hand, and together

we run to the hillside

we roll into a ball and tumble

“head over heals,” Grandmother said

on over grown grass.

We roll over clover and our toes tangle

in weeds,

we roll near apples left beneath the apple

tree.

In winter -

I hear you laugh -

your tear’s roll down your face

you’re laughing so hard

you bend to catch your breath. . .

Your chin captures yellow of a butter cup,

and again -  the wings of a white butterfly

leads me to the white picket fence.

The slope disappears.

The apple tree, a twig.

And your face

appears in murky water.

Your laughter still surrounds me -

A stone is tossed, and circles swirl over,

and over.

My eye’s close as if captured by the

swirling water,

and you were gone.

Forgive me.

A yellow eye - inside a white daisy

asked -  me to dance. . .

we are leaping across summer grass

near tall weeds and wild flowers.

Our dance ends – so,

I snap your stem to take you home.