Christine Jackson

On a late September morning,
the sun shimmers through oak leaf diamonds.
A hummingbird moth swoops
with a jeweled sweep of glittering wings,
floating over a lavender field of verbena.

A swallowtail butterfly sways
like a magician weaving a spell
above the purple panicles
on a butterfly bush.

A spirit set free from the soul
never flies very far.
It returns, hovering,
drawn to a nectar-sweet past,
sensing a light fragrance,
as if from a half-forgotten dream.