Butterfly

Yellow and then brown,
a falling, fall leaf,
darts not by wind,
but by wings,
that lift and carry it
to the last remnants,
the tiniest reminders
of brighter days in the low
flowers that sit under,
tucked under the grass,
below the lawnmower blades.

Yes, there it is,
not leaf at all,
not falling, not fallen,
but floating,
filled with light spiraled antennae
and feet as soft as a breeze,
with wings dull in shadow,
but bright yellow in the sun.