Two butterflies in spring.
‘The butterfly counts not months
but moments, and has time enough.’
But fooled by the clock I’ve counted
each hour, minute and second.Like a blank, white sheet I wait
for your inks to spill. I wait
for you to shape me into a
butterfly making moments.Cold, cruel snow torrents
this blank, white sheet.Bring the spring and colour my
wings like a colourful rainbow.
In the grim midst of winter, show
spring. See the lords of order envy.Bring your warmth.
Let the snow melt;
let the paper weep;
and let our colours blend.