Poetry of Issue #7        Page 41

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This is it –a match, wood, lit
the way a butterfly returns
by warming its wings wider

and wider, one against the other
then waits for the gust to spew out
as smoke lifting you to the surface

–this single match circling down
half on fire, half held close
is heating your grave, has roots

–embrace it, become a flower
fondle the ashes word by word
that erupt from your mouth

as an old love song, a breeze
worn away by hills and the light
coming back then lying down.

  Simon Perchik