The Butterfly
Already in midsummer
I miss your feet and fur.
Poor simple creature that you were,
What have you become!
Your slender person curled
About an apple twig
Rebounding to the winds' clear jig
Gave up the world
In favor of obscene
Gray matter, rode that ark
Until (as at the chance remark
Of Father Sheen)
Shining awake to slough
Your old life. And soon four
Dapper stained glass windows bore
You up--Enough.
Goodness, how tired one grows
Just looking through a prism:
Allegory, symbolism.
I've tried, Lord knows,
To keep from seeing double,
Blushed for whenever I did,
Prayed like a boy my cheek be hid
By manly stubble.
I caught you in a net
And first pierced your disguise
How many years ago? Time flies,
I am not yet
Proof against rigmarole.
Those frail wings, those antennae!
The day you hover without any
Tincture of soul,
Red monarch, swallowtail,
Will be the day my own
Wiles gather dust. Each will have flown
The other's jail.
Created by
guccipiggy
Last modified
2005-03-17 09:04 PM
