Late Summer Garden

The butterflies make no sound, seem always
to be travelling away from sight.
Copper and alabaster keys,
they have the freedom of the garden.
One quivers like a nerve
against my thumb's blue base,
its wings ragged and veined, pressed
like petals between clear leaves of air.
What nectar has sustained
that forthright orange, chameleon brown?
A dust of pollen radiates from where
the wings, almost unhinged,
touch the body haloed in dark hair.
The eyes of the wings
have opened and closed a million times.
Air quickens, drifts the butterfly down
into grass sewn with yellowed leaves
and buttercups — glossy, unfading suns.
Above, the bright fluttering green
of trees that have breathed and sung
with all the strength of summer.