Question-mark Butterfly (Polygonia interrogationis)
The underside of every moment is a shimmer you
might hear, but not see: curved and silvering
as an echo of bells at sundown, mottled
or muffled from mallet-blows. When the last
of the herd is driven into the barn, the man
latches the gate and washes up at the pump.
Shadows streak the linen on the supper table.
Shadows soften the winged bodies in love
with the dangerous heat from the lamp: listen,
they frame most of the questions at this hour.
In the corner of the room, a woman dozes off
in an armchair. The knitting has slipped
from her hands. The child by the window
has brushed her long, black hair and gazes
at a wilderness of stars in the dark.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.