A butterfly
Of halting flight
And unsure route
Came tremulous
Within my sight,
(If not without).
A milkweed
In the sun
And on a
Weed green leaf
She landed.
The flutter
Of her day
Was done.
And there
In the sun
The leaf became
Her earthly bower,
And she in turn
Became its flower,
With open wings
And closing slow,
A Psyche/Cupid
Love tableau.
Though she alone
Aloft the sky
Was but an
And Eros, her god,
Her love, her need,
A simple leaf
And common weed,
Their unity
Had magically
Transfigured both
To royalty.
She was,
Of course,
No monarch quite,
A common lowly
Cabbage white,
Now somehow
Possessed of power
To be a perfect
Snow drop flower,
A noble queen
Upon her throne
Beneath a golden
Sceptred sun,
All creatures
Have been given
Mostly brittle things.
And though we fly,
Made as we are,
Before we die,
We don’t fly far.
“Earth’s the right
Place for love,”
An we fly
Too high above,
A better wing
Were tragic
An we o’erfly
The magic
That transforms
All things...
An angel flower
Out of wings,
And for a
Butterfly relief,
A love-god
Of a milkweed leaf.
Love renders
All things lowly
Land then
And open wide
Your soul.