I have waited

in a cubicle clearing

for 3 years.

There have been other butterflies

Monarchs, Swallowtails, White Moths—with two black dots.

I have adjusted

my extendable handle

on my net, like a passionate engineer.

She flies higher

and lands, on oak leaves.

Her wings are coated with pixy dust.


she opens them and closes them

until they are stiff, showing off her freckles.

I have butterflies in my stomach

that want to come out, and

I am not ordinarily excited by things.

I look at the sky, and I don’t think it’s beautiful.

I know I should,

but it’s a damp blanket

most of the time.

Now, it’s sunny and hot

and my neck hurts

from looking up at her

and my head hurts from concentration.

I don’t like to sing

but I start to


It’s like the fisherman, gently

releasing his line.

He wants to catch her.

He isn’t there to fish.

There’s nothing wrong with fishing, cracking beers, and having a good time

but there’s one fish

who merits

his attention

even if, all of his emotions


on pleasure and pain


with anticipation.

He steps out, into the dangerous river

willing to risk his life.


he prefers solitude, the simple life, and still ponds

but she takes him into the rapids, away from his comfort zone.


is too still

without her.


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