Stir Sir

In kitchen butterfly,
unusual any season,
but January, the twenty first?

We moved lettuce
and lemon tree inside
to frustrate frost,
the night poet.

I stirred onions from a chair,
book opened to steamed glasses,
yellow tinged wings
opened over the salt bowl.

Happy birthday father,
dead, just short of one hundred years.

Every wish comes true,
when it flits by
Will SchmitComment