Monarch

Her footprints marked    
the dried mud that morning.    
Each depression resembled    
fossils created before death.    
   
When we were young,    
I remember she caught a frog under a log,    
held him for a while in    
her cupped hands,    
then stooped down in the grass as    
we watched him leap away.    
   
We communicated some nights with    
flashlights from    
our bedroom windows.    
   
And one day, she started to climb    
up the water tower, saying jokingly    
she was a butterfly, before I coaxed her    
to come back down.    
   
Sometimes, people,    
though displaying the mania of joy,    
can be horrifically vulnerable inside    
when they're alone and confronted by    
their own dark thoughts.    
   
She once mentioned reincarnation.    
She wondered if we came back    
as monarch butterflies, and held out her finger    
wondering if one would    
nestle on her knuckle.    
   
In grief, I tried to replace her with things:    
favorite Nirvana CD's and R.E.M. CDs.    
   
I spent a ton of time looking, searching    
for many things.    
   
I'd look at trees in autumn.    
And one day, at a butterfly...    
wondering.    
   
I liked her better without wings,    
whether butterfly or angel type.    
If only she'd had them before she    
went back to the top of the water tower    
alone, consumed by her dark thoughts.