A murky-blue, indifferent sky
intervened by clouds,
and front yard gardens along the road,
are in bloom on summer’s doorstep.
Then a topaz butterfly wanders
into a flock of daffodils,
its wings emblazed in hieroglyphs
I can’t decipher—
sipping the nectar and hovering
like a bookmark to mark its place
between pages of the quiet air,
and the sun is going down
in such a way that I can’t tell if it is me
or the day that is ending.