HOLES

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.