The air no longer warm and icky,
The turn to autumn comes to pass.
The tint of dawn, pink in its twinkling,
Paints little ones in mauve and brass.
The teacher says form lines then, neatly.
The kiddos stand with mesh lined bags,
That teem with the remains of summer.
Those not as nimble seem to lag.
A mix of grief and understanding,
To let a friend fly and be free,
A whole ordeal, made cerimonious
When they, in unison, count to three:
One and, two and, three then hush-
Watch butterflies depart in no apparent rush.
