She stood at the unclosed door
in an egg-yolk dress
with a butterfly perched
on her shoulder.
This, in itself, was strange
since she had the keenest
distrust of insects.
But something made her glance down, and to the left
where the slow movement of wings
caused her to whisk it away.
A thimble-sized spot of chartreuse pollen
was smudged to a blur on her collar
near a cameo brooch.
And now she stands before a full length mirror
brushing the spot with a white lace handkerchief
feeling regret at destroying such fragile beauty.
She considered it only until she returned to the porch
to meet her beau, and never thought about it again,
just as one dismisses an arc of spittle caught in sunlight
during a conversation long forgotten.