With butterfly ink I am
somewhere left behind
with music and dreams
to discover myself.
Without a circle to follow
or a guide to ask which way
I sigh an begin another typical day.
I write of trees, green
of an ocean, foamy and green
of a room down the hallway
slightly blue
wishing I could word the odor
of wet grass, dark green.
With butterfly ink I write of
clouds that change passing by
then witness a butterfly flutter
matching the one within my heart
a perfect way to start
writing again.
