A whimsical, tipsy leaf
lapped by the air, across my face
pulls me back to the world from myself,
from my eye-contact with the ground;
my calf muscles go stiff, in fear,
and loosen themselves again-
it is a butterfly.
The solitary fruit of my mountain walk
-not a bird could I spot-
wrapped up in these tiny wings
of stained glass, just floating away.
Amazing creature this, as if your baby sister,
newly arrived from mama's womb,
with alien objects for limbs
stuck in a hurry, put together.
Just a union of two fans
held together by venerable worm-god,
like a clip on a clothesline,
or like a book of absolute symmetry,
of two pages repeated, one after the other
the first saying- all this can be,
the other- all this cannot.
My descent turns into a symphony,
orchestrated by the intoxicated butterfly,
unspoken music, the mother of music.
Constant, harmonious, laborious-
I look through my eyes, find her there;
I close my eyes,
and still find her there.