I used to run in the cherry orchards
with Uncle Vanya in the spring
dogs chased butterflies
until the sun glimmered east of the steeple
casting shadows in their shadow play
on the garland meadows by the garland gate.

Not far away, the crypts, where my father lays
stretched in his red marble bed.
He's gone now, fossilized in my heart,
like dried roses pressed beneath
the pages of our family bible.
Ashes and dust mixed with tears,
make a strong ink for my words.

"Look at the stencils," my aunt would show me
'my such lovely pictures, your sister made
the elegance, the technique; look at the butterfly wings
like a peacock's bright plumage in a English garden."
Her art never suffered but her mind passed on
Now, she dances in the orchards
where the old butterflies go.

Barking, ever barking my dog goes on,
the town crier that he is, Nickolai be still, I miss him too.
Awaking from daydreams, looking out across our pond
I see the sun's embers fading into darkness
Uncle Vanya has gone away for good.

Slowly I see plumage of a yellow tail butterfly hover.
She'll carry him to the golden isle
where good souls are made.
My sister had a butterfly's strength and spirit.
Butterfly souls are born that way.
Now, Uncle Vanya is a butterfly too.

Based on works of Anton Chekhov, a poem written about butterflies and orchards.