Meandering
One spring day meandering in a meadow,
I saw a butterfly whose beauty matched that
of May's azure sky.
With blue silken wings like that of a fairy,
she flitted here and there -
aimlessly as butterflies seem wont to do.
Oh, to be that butterfly,
alighting on any pretty flower whose scent delighted me -
unhurried and unworried.
I would be that butterfly breezing through the meadow
meandering . . . meandering . . .
to where – I did not know,
but soon I found myself beside a brook.
My heart became the song of blue bells
which danced with the wind beside the brooklet.
And as my little friend fluttered on,
I careened behind her with arms outstretched,
laughing as the long grasses through which I leaped
tickled the calves and shins of my legs.
Soon I was approaching a grove of tall green trees -
meandering . . . meandering.
I kept my eyes on the bright blue wings ahead of me.
Freely I flowed like the wind that swept through my hair
as it fluttered the leaves of the tall green trees
until suddenly – the butterfly
was vanished from my view!
I knew not to where I’d wandered,
but in my heart I had no fear.
All things come to an end eventually,
but also all paths eventually lead
to somewhere.
Turning myself back toward the direction
from which I’d come
and with my arms spread wide,
I let the butterfly in me
take me eastward -
meandering . . meandering.
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