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
even if, all of his emotions
on pleasure and pain
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