My words are butterflies in a meadow.
You walk through them and they scatter and float around you,
twisting and dancing in your footsteps,
riding on your breath,
and I am left chasing them.
Wordless.
But not empty handed.
My hands full of rhythm.
Like the fall and rise of your chest.
The steady inhale, exhale I listen to.
My hands dancing in the shine of your eyes.
These lines like those elusive butteflies
reflected in that shine.
So I wait for them to glide near.
Patient.
And when they alight upon my hands,
I let my fingertips breathe them in,
and soak who I am.
And it is then that I feel their raw emotion.
Burning without a sting.
Instead, calm and reassuring.
In an instant they're gone
in a quiet breath of wind.
But their essence lingers
in the life of this poem.