In the time of the butterflies,
before lush grapes turned sour,
aged trees shook in unison,
fearful of what might pass.

Elders with low, ferocious
voices murmured, then shouted
until they howled under a
caliginous canopy, woven from
smoke and anise seed, rising in
anger only to fall upon a traitorous
ground.  Needle noses prepare to
pierce trembling flesh that may
still be perspiring in dimples of
wounded earth.

Bare is this weeping land, divested
of its plentitude, beneath our
incompetent hands–hoping and
praying that those pale peach, hazelnut
wraiths will find their way home.