The trees are graveyards for high hopes;
they hold Winter wishes for change.
A new direction is in charge.
Mr. Spaceman flaps over the budding trees.
The branches curve like spilled ink snaking its way down wet paper.
The buds punctuate the harsh Winter.
The breeze hides behind the stone mansion.
Mr. Spaceman tangles in the atmosphere -
his final thread snags on the erupting Spring visitors.
Butterflies slump on their tall graves;
blue, green and pink drape the tree tops
and the wind embeds them deeper into the grave.
One butterfly followed us and I wrote it down.
Metaphor.
What I really meant to write was metamorphosis.
The air today was so pure and new;
not a sound penetrated the sun's rays.
We walked uphill from the warm rock and talked
about the walls that use to surround the pastures.
Now a forest covers the scarred land.
I stopped to admire the sunburst orange feather,
clapping its wings in front of our feet.
I would like to think it was bowing down, or curtsying.
It floated high to the naked tree tops,
kissed the small red buds, and
glowed in the beam of April sun.
If you follow the butterfly with your eyes and then your
heart, with all your mighty heart,
you will get to ride the white bike
your father gave you in the morning.
You will get to fly a kite.
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