Butterfly.

O, wing-ed one I see,
You must fly
you must be free.
But return at spring's end
with lighted eyes
and tales to tend.
Yor silent cries
heard clear
yet nought.
Going backwards is the clock.
Though time is slow,
this I shall not know.
For days will pass,
next weeks,
then months.
With your help of course.
I look to thee
and think of she.
Comfort.
It shall not elude me.