my pen, the butterfly

Flitting from thought to thought,
each a distraction,
barely pressing tiny feet upon one petal
before floating off to another,

sometimes pausing just long enough
to sip from the nectar -
its sustenance, joy of its existence.
But it is tossed by the gentlest breeze.

How many times do I try to catch it!
Cupping my hands upon emptiness,
swinging my net toward air,
but my net is frayed and torn,
my hands, too clumsy and slow
and sometimes, the butterfly's flight too lofty and bold.

It becomes a speck as it gets lost in
the endless indigo sky.

I sit defeated with chin in hand
and all around me: the warm summer air,
the silence, but for the rustling of leaves,
the poignant perfume of a million flowers,
the worm's work below, secretive, 

beckoning roots to reach deep
into dark, rich soil,
and raise flowery heads high toward the sun,
wings spread as if in flight,
mimicking perfectly the dearest hobby of their friend,
the butterfly.

I am awed by their ability to persuade it
just by being,
just by showing off their gaudy colors
and casting fragrance that collides into passing olfactory nerves
without even asking.

They are still,
confident in their calling
to merely sit with the silence
and accept with openness
those tiny feet
and curling tongues.

So I wait like the flowers.
I let the breeze stir my whisps of hair,
lick my lips and feel it cool upon them.
I consider the heat, the rustle, the worm -
the beauty of these simple things
that ask for no attention,
but just be what they are meant to be.
I rest, silent and unassuming

and upon my knee! - a butterfly:
timid, accidental
mistaking me for a flower.

I need not net nor hands,
just stillness and breath
And my colors
(which come naturally).
Nature calls her to be bold in flight, 
I must be bold in trust.

This is what I am made for -
just as the flower is made for the butterly,
and the butterfly for the flower.
Now I know.

And so it is with this knowing
that I walk into an open field,
root myself in soil and sun
and become a dandelion.