Faith is always so simply given
to butterflies in your hand,
needing only air and soon they have risen,
all part of his plan.
Faith is blind, always unseen,
asking us only to believe.
Supported on all sides and from within
but fearing we are often misperceived.
Like the butterfly prepared for flight
with space and molecules unseen,
spanning the distance with certain delight,
the flower becomes the only thing.
Collected and centered the two become one,
the goal and the advance,
never noticing the flight has begun
the butterfly descends to land.
Each but half of the other
the beginning and the end,
time is just an illusion,
circles, encompassing everything.
The target and the arrow,
the darkness and the light,
the package and the bows,
the butterfly and the rose.