Poetry by Greg Kerstetter
I watch a detached butterfly wing blow
and float in the happenstance way
that a Spangled Fritillary flies.
Even free, loose, it remains
bound to its former use.
The shining metal spots
stamped on orange
velvet give the one
wing, lying there,
in the dirt, visual heft.
Picking it up, I find it weighs
less than the word used to measure it.
About the Poet
Greg Kerstetter writes, teaches, and plays in western Massachusetts. Each spring, he plants a riotous, unplanned garden and wonders all summer why it’s so hard to keep weeded. He finds plenty of tomatoes and poems there.