how a butterfly feels

 

 
 
 

              feels like dying, being alive.
     
     
     
    this poem, what did it look like when
    it was a first birth.   not a question.

              stepping stones.   after all.
     
     
     
     
    here there is a room.   there is a desk.
    four walls and a roof.   oh yea, a floor for my feet.

              wonder.   is a pinnacle.

    it’s the second floor above.   desktop, two arms reach.
    garden where there isn’t roof.   letters under fingertips.

    a fence, a gate.   sometimes snow.   listening.
              all I mean.
              it is more than me.
    a road, feet on stone.   quietly.

    random noises.   make far and near.   I’m not the center.
              even when it feels that way.
     
     
    these raining words, more kind than me.   more better.
    more stronger.      more loving.

    more astonished.

    mostly so.   that they find my fingers eagerly.
     
     
    it is a blessing.    after all.

 
 
 
 
 
 

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