Puddle
Sinking butterflies drip from the cocoon of consciousness
which no bee nor horse fly could understand for a blink,
and which even humans wish could retreat to the fallen:
Of a body, of a vein, of a spot across a field.
In what daisy does that petal float
where it found it's fateful bee that resists its wings.
Threats from the concrete river keep it mulling,
always waiting for the stem reincarnate.
Why caterpillar nor sunflower betroth it gift
is a bee's greatest myth.
While men worry of time not spent changing
black and yellow armies collapse with no wars raging.
Ripple through, wave goodbye, droplets leave for the sky.
A bee must drown,
a caterpillar will scatter,
only for the butterfly, with wings agape, to show its beauty in death that waits.
Sticks and stones will kill on sight
anything which proposes light.
Black and white stripes guide only us at night,
how funny that stripes are walked upon without a fight.
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