Like an autumnal shower of brilliant leaves,
butterflies float in a lush conservatory garden.
A winged emissary rests and caresses my hand,
wonder and quiet joy.
To the Celts they were renewal and transformation,
emissaries of the eternal
clothed in gossamer wings.
I remember the burly man with great metal claws
As he toted a huge diamond into the kitchen,
a chunk of ice for the box.
It glowed like a crystal chandelier,
but froze my small probing fingers.
Small items were on the top shelf,
A buttery slab, ruby hued strawberries, a lone ear of corn.
Sparkling glass bottles of milk with cream on top
filled the lower shelf.
They looked like snowy penguins
huddled by an Arctic sea.
The bottles felt as smooth and cold as polished stones
in a gushing stream.
In the summer I loved to touch their smooth coolness
and sip the creamy delight,
a taboo so delicious to breach
and not get caught!
