Butterfly

All, like everyone else, I would be honored by your critiques of the poetry I submitted to these forums! The critiques I've received in the press over the past 25 years have done little to enhance the substance of the poetry I create. We, in the trenches, are our best critics, I assure you! Even at readings and signings, you will not find the kind of response a forum like this can provide. Kudos to the able2know folks for having forged this! Having discovered this wonderful space, I will endeavor to provide the best and most positive feedback to your poetry that this mortal can humbly offer.


Butterfly

The breath of dead man winter's
Swirling vapors of the frozen -
Forging dendrites in the splinters,
Bringing rains, the rivers run.

Along those swollen banks we stroll,
To take account of winter's toll -
Eviscerated, but his ghostly grip still lingers
In the frost that splits the soil.

Then amongst last season's damage,
Rustling in decaying twigs,
Are little nests defying carnage,
Writhing in the planting sun.

And there I pause, to which they say,
?'let's go, so what?'
Because it's all so annual,
So unspectacular -
?'But,' I argue, ?'that's the reason
To enjoy this observation!'

It's a not-too-distant season
When these things will metamorphose -
Bursting from
Their bound-up selves
To migrate far away.

Breath of dead man winter's faded -
Smelt of purpose as he'd fasted,
Now the milkweed's in the sun -
And that caterpillar's fatted, feasting -
?'Think I'll stay, you run along.'

*From the collection Vapours of Promise, 2004, Llumina Press