Such an odd mourning: weeping
at the sight of a dried-out butterfly,
post-flutter, wings stiff and still, dead
and stuck between window and screen
as seen from the cozy breakfast nook view.

Then later, the sight of a roadkill’d squirrel
drove itself into my throat and got caught.
I pictured its wife humming softly at home
while preparing the nightly acorn feast,
not knowing she’d be dining alone.

Was it hormones or a midlife crisis
that was stirring me so? Or perhaps
five days in Canadian nature, alongside
mountains ancient with grandeur,
had taught me the meaning of fleeting.

No. In truth, this was (is) just practice,
for the day when true keening occurs.
How much longer, I wonder, until
a real grief becomes mine?
Let’s see. Mom’s 67. Dad’s 69.

About the author:

Josh Lefkowitz was born and raised in metro Detroit, and received an Avery Hopwood Award for Poetry at the University of Michigan. His poems and essays have been published in The New York Times, Washington Square Review, Electric Literature, Rattle, Painted Bride Quarterly, and many other places. He currently lives in Boulder, Colorado.

Feature image by Annie Spratt on Unsplash