Stir Sir

In kitchen butterfly,

unusual any season,

but January, the twenty first?

We moved lettuce

and lemon tree inside

to frustrate frost,

the night poet.

I stirred onions from a chair,

book opened to steamed glasses,

yellow tinged wings

opened over the salt bowl.

Happy birthday father,

dead, just short of one hundred years.

Every wish comes true,

when it flits by

unbroken.