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Sherri Turner

turner_jands@yahoo.co.uk

 

I live in a butterfly house,

scrappy yellow wings on every surface,

making the place untidy.

I shoo them away, but they’re not scared of me.

They soon return,

their sticky feet clinging to all manner of things.

I need them,

apparently,

for days when this is a thingummy,

and that a watchamacallit.

I always managed before.

I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.

The reflection that I see is still me,

but I don’t remember my lines.

One thing they forgot,

the labellers:

no butterfly on you.

Husband, lover, friend;

soon to be misty stranger.

Maybe they did it on purpose so you would know

that when I needed it

you had to let hope go.

©2011 Sherri Turner

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