With butterfly ink

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.