chased a butterfly
into an open field.
never asked or knew why.
stood awhile, mean and rude,
lulled and soothed, by and by,
and quiet as she came.
palm extended, flat and warm,
landing quite a plain thing---
rock, branch, blade of grass,
a white unbroken petal---
the field of glowing landing sites,
yet her legs, my hand's delight!
and i somehow get confused
by her gesture, by her choice.
that i am the one she means to lay upon,
that my colors and scent are her taste,
not though her wings are tired,
but this day my palm is the flower's dismay!
the field around evaporates,
though connected in color and shape---
the forms they take and the games they play!
limbs, by light and air, detect
roots, all rich below, that must protect---
scapes, this gyspy queen sprightly wanders,
this gentleman's firm palms and ponders.
but heart pulsing incites her flutter,
and aloft she, butterfly!
away from this man!! not to grass, nor to sand,
for neither leave nor limb alone can fill
her needs, only airborn swim...but still
if this man can hold his form of palm,
then this dear butterfly,
may yet land again,
when she has done her storm.