Near a series of smooth holes in the rock,
we sat quietly
for hours,
not catching anything.
In one hole, a butterfly edged
on the slick surface
toward stagnant water.
In another, two butterflies hung frozen,
wings open,
the web
barely visible
against gray stone.
You died a week later. Twenty years,
and the butterflies are here again.
The stone
is cool
and smooth
almost
comfortable
enough
to sleep on.
In another
twenty years,
I will wake,
the same age as you,
the water still flowing
into a deep pool while you gaze
at the leaves of the buckeyes,
the butterflies rising
and falling,
our bodies
still shadows
in the flowing water.
