If I Were a Poet

It was exactly a year ago,
and from the angle of the sun
refracted through my tears,
it even seems like the same time of day.

I watch a butterfly
circle a flower three times,
orbiting ever wider
as if a planet is losing its hold
on a fluttering orange moon.
Escaping at last,
it brushes against my cheek
on its way into the sky.

My gaze follows as far as I can,
and in the warm June sunlight
I find that I am no longer crying.