A Butterfly Villanelle    in iambic tetrameter   The angel dust that lines your wings,   that's made by no apothecary,   can cure the dark that autumn brings,   can heal the wound a hornet stings,   can raise to flight a torn canary.   The angel dust that lines your wings   can summon winds and breath that sings,   can warm the soil that winters bury,   can cure the dark that autumn brings.   I tell you this because hope springs   that you might in this season tarry.   The angel dust that lines your wings   can calm the babe whom mother clings,   if you are here in January,   can cure the dark that autumn brings.   The leaves they fall, you take your things   to Mexico ere seasons vary.   The angel dust that lines your wings   won't cure the dark that autumn brings.