- Olivia E. Olson
Dear Mathilde: April 1, 2020
Updated: Sep 22, 2020
Dear Mathilde:
Leaned up against
a willow that’s old and filtering light
somewhere out there still
in that old life we held papery hands.
Love, you sung, to the monarchs
with the muscular
wings, love to the gumshoe
crows who saw
us come, watched you
go. Love, that chrome cold evening,
your slithered disappearance
was masterful. My traceless
loss. I’ll keep it up in the scraggly woods
but what will you do. What
will the beautiful
you do, like a moth on the tree
no one noticed. The dry leaves, the spring
that a moth melts into. What
should we make of that.
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