Albino Butterfly

Albino Butterfly

Sweet William sits in clay pots
on the patio shaded by the darkness of pines,
as a swarm of starlings
introduces me to morning.

My voice sounds small and whispering.
Something has happened to me.
I have detached from, mourned and buried
him and yet he returns again and again.
With each recovery I ask myself,
why was I chosen to love this man?

I am tired, depressed and damn this
disease and wonder when I started
cursing him for not dying. I was not
born to be a caretaker.
I want the Netherlands' "soft death"
to visit my city, his room.

My forties are gone, my fifties
will not play away this madness.
My green thumb years were short,
I have no more seeds to plant.