Floating Tales

A butterfly just butted in
and is being quite belligerent.

I must begin to [[write]],
though what it is I cannot say,
opening the [[heart]] of her orange wings
tipped white then back to black
with each new [[line]] about how she led me,
first [[through]] yellow flowers where she fed
on a smell somewhere between
carrion and butter, as if [[death]]'s delicacy
were living right [[here]] at the dune's summit,
and then deeper through the forest
where we found a shy duiker
who finally chose to show himself.

I'd feared a tragic end, yet
here he is t[[read]]ing daintily his [[truth]]
on paths only he can tell,
as he shares his air with the trees
and this interloper laden with the scent
of rotting wood and fresh earth
and [[root]]s which reach right across
the layers of litter lit up
with a [[light]] so fierce I sneeze
as I step onto the [[beach]],
my monarch guide gracing the single
piece of driftwood drawing itself,
inch by tidal inch, back to whence it came
and now everything is glowing [[white]]
across the glimmering waves,
which mark their passing on these [[empty]] miles
and I can barely bring my[[self]]
to see such boundless overwhelm,
so I sing remembrance and bodysurf
clear [[blue]] and laugh my head off
and swear never to write a word of it.

But [[now]], again, this damn butterfly is [[be]]ing
impressively persistent, pointing out
that it's [[not]] my story, but hers:
a tale of how she found a human
who could hear her, and hauled him
before the morning light so he could learn
what a [[moment]] means and how she still
had to come back, and get trapped,
just so she could remind him - silly man! -
to make his [[way]] back to [[simple]] words:
his [[holy]] unimportant duty
which has deepened into [[joy]].


  • Go on living with it