It started as a breeze,
Or maybe a gale.
Well, it’s one or the other,
But either way, it started.
So, this wind traveled North,
Passed the Appalachians –
Made its way over Atlantic waters,
And settled somewhere East.
It began as a bud,
And sprouted into infinity.
(You know,
Earthlings can’t wrap their head around “infinity”)
But that’s how it started,
And that’s how it grew.
It made me contemplate,
Over the chicken soup,
I was preparing for me and you –
It made me really think about life.
It was a thing with wings,
And it didn’t stop fluttering –
It gracefully flapped its iridescent wings
Over canyons,
Over fissures,
Over everything – dangerous.
It made me stop and ponder for a while,
It made you stop and wonder for a while.
The way this Butterfly can forcefully
Make its presence known.
It left an impact, wherever it’d go –
How can something so small, be so large in influence?
And that’s the funny thing about life:
It’s the improbable who inspire.
And for a while, after days would pass,
After weeks of cocooning my power.
I would often sit still,
Look at you leave the door, say “goodbye,”
And sit there,
And do absolutely nothing.
The way we can sit there,
And do absolutely nothing.
No glance at a phone,
No glance at a book.
Nothing.
So that’s the day I knew something had to change,
I opened up a dusty notebook underneath the shelf.
And I began to think,
And I really wanted to write.
But nothing came out,
So I looked out towards the window -
And I saw The Butterfly,
It would usually pass by on quiet days
And there it was, as if awaiting my presence.
But this time, it did something unusual.
It slowly laid it’s body onto the sill,
Curved into a C-shape and laid there on my windowsill.
I stood up from my chair,
And approached the Butterfly.
It wasn’t moving and sat there so strangely -
That was when I made out – it was dead.
I was astonished,
I couldn’t quite make out how this had happened.
I opened the window and carefully
Cupped the Butterfly into my hands –
A powerful force,
A fearless flyer - had made my window a grave.
You know, butterflies only live for about 2 weeks –
And it hit me.
I HAD to write.
I opened up the notebook and I wrote and I wrote –
The ink smearing on sheet,
Transcended thoughts I’ve hidden for so long.
I was never more alive than that moment –
And the butterfly’s body lay there, watching in unconscious splendor –
As I wrote my heart onto an old white page,
Saying everything - from nothing –
The hours accumulated and cocooned,
As my metamorphosis began to bloom!
And that was when you rang the doorbell,
And it was about noon.
And you began to read my writings,
And stood there – speechless –
That was the day we both found out –
The Butterfly was Poetry!