Latecomer (Poetry)

Early October — afternoon
and a butterfly is dithering
high in the pines where slanting light
catches his orange-red-brown.

He flits from branch to branch
searching — so it seems
among the sapped-out leaves
Autumn’s slowly turning.

He’s arrived a bit too late —
Summer’s good as fizzled out —
others of his kind already gone
and left the party.

Still he sifts among the dregs —
the lukewarm sun upon his wings
spurred on by a blind need
to keep circulating.