They come and kiss me, like butterflies.
Shimmering phrases, gently drifting over the fence
as I watch, away, away from memory and mind.
I do not grieve for the unwritten line;
more of them fluttering free means a greener, shadier world.
I remember the sight of one, as it stepped off the air
and sat itself down on the black gate. Seventeen sapphires
dropped from the silk and turned to azure ashes on the ground.
A passing ant picked, neatly, a single particle, tasted it
and turned into a jewel bug. She lives on at the top of a leaf,
waiting for a cat with cobalt eyes.
Yet, I let the winged lines go. Perhaps they will learn to know
I will never net them, perhaps they will grow me a garden
with their yellow burdens and when it blooms,
come listen to the golden guitars the breeze will play.