Place

Butterflies flutter fly, mid twists of trees,

Pale-winged, like jittery petals in the breeze,

Regents in a world of pollen -- budding blooms.

Intricate pixies -- fragile as breath, ever looms,

Their finitude,

The shadow of death.

Paired wood-doves alight lightly on some twig,

Chestnut plumes weaved smooth, heads preen a jig. 

Ever content cooing a haunting melodic longing,

Beckon bird choirs to the grace of every dawning,

Of their given days,

Of their given breath.

Swarming cicadas  -- trilling crescendo gives them away,

Still unseen as a smoky sky charcoals in the dusk of day.

From depths emerging, for this time, to call and respond,

Their season to mate, to spawn, and be predated upon,

'Til their ranks dwindle,

And only silence is left.

One wanderer wandering in his waning summers,

His steps fall heavier, his frame yields, he lumbers,

Contrary to fellow creatures -- a sojourner out of place,

Averting the beatific vision, like the parents of our race,

Beloved and yet breathless,

Before the very life breath,

Of God.