The milkweed maid
by the beats of butterfly wings.
She has her own tales of fleeting beauty to tell.
Her losses gather
at the base of an aging flower.
She knows the pain of fading slow.
is the clean sweetness
of a plum.
The ache of ripeness untasted is familiar.
She is a remnant of a passing season.
Soon, winter will have its way.
Submitted to Poetry Pantry