Butterfly or biplane, covering the camera lens, each ancient in its own way, depending on the timeframe, predating me by decades or millennia, reverse respectively, each decoratively protective, though in different degrees and sizes—still it’s hard for the eye to distinguish anything for certain when it lies that close in front.
And even so, I wonder why my mind flits to butterfly today, why it lands there, ever so lightly at a time this weighty, where worry sings shrill like jagged nails on slate, paints my faded, ragged wings with lead, and so instead of soaring, bouncing on breeze, I more often stumble, wheezing in the dirt, with crumbling spine, hacking up countless hackneyed words that only sort of rhyme.
I’ve been cursing these latest days, blaming this blighted time, for so long that I’ve failed to notice that maybe the frame was simply off-center, that my lens was bent and tilted, sent askew by my more bitter winds.
That is, until you came back to block out my broken picture, to fix my out-of-focus view, to mend my base so I could stand straight.
Then you wiped away the fog and dirt from my glass and stepped back at last so I could see you, my dear lovely butterfly, clearly.
We go ’long harmonizing a song, or I’m recitin’ a poem…