A Hundred Butterflies

She’s soothed in the colour
of old gas light, and
sways to a piano’s moan.

The warm, dense air
has put her in a weary sort of
satisfied mood. The moon

hanging pregnantly full,
and the stars up there
hum like bees at

the jasmine and honeysuckle.  
It’s a thick scent that
makes her head swim,

makes her feel light as
a butterfly’s shadow.
Is it madness or blasphemy
to worship the night,

with its floral scents that
caress the skin like
a hundred butterflies.

Never let it be said
that she wanted more
than a sweet smelling life.