Yellow with thin black veins against the cemetery green
Bounces in the breeze.
The dancing distraction lifts the mourning weight
Of scarves and long coats and bowed heads.
And one finds one’s self delighted without thinking
Until the wing alights for one beat
Revealing itself to be nothing
But a scrap of scribbled paper
Some Post-It Note tumbling across the yard.
How the sight of litter spoils the spirit!
How secular in such a sacred space!
One judges one’s self harshly
Even for noticing such temporal things
At a time such this.
But one can’t help it.
One wonders what is written.
Perhaps a secret the dear departed had slipped
Within the leaves of the parson's Bible
Blown by the breeze before it could be read.
A revelation left for the living
After so many years.
Surely it was something
One had coldly ignored all the live-long days.
An indignity one had caused without knowing.
Some sorrow one had never listened to.
A confession or a life-long heartache shared
At last as death loomed
Now flitting away forever
To be trashed by the grounds crew
On another day.
The weight of finality one must wear.
It is no butterfly.