Near a series of smooth holes
in the rock, we sat quietly
for hours, not catching
anything. In one hole, a butterfly edged

on the slick surface toward stagnant water.
In another, two butterflies hung frozen,
wings open, the web
barely visible against gray stone.

You died a week later. Twenty years,
and the butterflies are here again. The stone
is cool and smooth, almost comfortable enough
to sleep on. In another twenty years

I will wake, the same age as you,
the water still flowing
into a deep pool while you gaze
at the leaves of the buckeyes,

the butterflies rising
and falling, our bodies
still shadows
in the flowing water.

Find an eternal path.
Open a door in the mind.