Burnished brass notes
carry the rasp of flag-draped grief
into October’s cerulean vault.

Along the afternoon breeze,
a single orange butterfly tumbles south.


Coming Home

It wasn’t how high she looked to find his face,
or that he said before she told him,
the years producing careful draftsman numbers bored her;

it wasn’t his casual laugh for palomino mice
incarcerated on her kitchen table next to hooded rats in a ferret cage,

nor the wryly mocking wrinkle beside his eyes as she beat him
two-of-three at Scrabble.

It was when he said his birthday is the day before her dad’s.

That night in the movies, he put an arm around her shoulder--
and she was home.

Editted for line breaks.  Not quite so klunky now.  I think.

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mousefeathers

November 2016

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