Only fizzles left: the mystery’s after-breath
in two thin contrails next to clouds fat
as unblown dandelion clocks.

Jetting over fields of long grass
with their unharried pace of life, the mystery
dodges and dives, knows this sky an instant,

then on, over another field, another swatch
of blue, closer to the horizon that bobs
and floats, taunting all to touch it…

In our summer meadow, a Gioconda butterfly
teases the knapweed. He leans to catch it,
and misses. I lean away, wondering if

this is a warning, and whom that warning’s for.
I watch his gaze follow me across the buttercups.
I taste clovered sun on my lips,

and flicker with enigma.