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Edgar Lee Masters
Their spirits beat upon mine
Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
And when they turned their heads;
And when their garments clung to them,
Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
Their spirits watched my ecstasy
With wide looks of starry unconcern.
Their spirits looked upon my torture;
They drank it as it were the water of life;
With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes,
The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
And they cried to me for life, life, life.
The Butterfly's Numidian Gown
With spots of Burnish roasted on
Is proof against the Sun
Yet prone to shut its spotted Fan
And panting on a Clover lean
As if it were undone --
A soft Sea washed around the House
A Sea of Summer Air
And rose and fell the magic Planks
That sailed without a care --
For Captain was the Butterfly
For Helmsman was the Bee
And an entire universe
For the delighted crew.
The retriever pup
chases butterfly shadows
even in his sleep.
Butterfly’s shadow:
the dog’s nose goes wild
at the lack of odor.
Muzzle to ground,
his legs get ahead of him:
herding shadows.
Butterfly shadow
on the lawn shrinks, vanishes.
The dog digs for it.
Head under water
the golden retriever
keeps his eyes open.
On the creek bottom
the slow downward spiral
of a leaf
black butterfly
wings still damp
from the tomb
cooling breeze
the black-throated green warbler’s
other song
The dark, seasonal pool at the top of the watershed has dried up, so where do I go now to let my eyes relax and envision possibilities apart from the doom-scroll on my phone or laptop?
cracks in the mud
100% chance
of chaos
A chickadee in the garden
fills its beak with thistle down
and flies off to its nest.
I take a closer look:
that’s no down, but my own white hair
from last month’s haircut.
A spring azure butterfly
lands on the blue gravel road
and disappears.
Camera out, you stalk
a mourning cloak,
avid as a book thief
for that two-page
spread of darkness
glowing in the leafless woods,
you and the butterfly—
both quick to fly but loathe to leave.
And edged in light.
Pause awhile, butterfly,
Alight here, on this wilting Rose.
Young flowers, I know, are beckoning you,
But stay with me, just for a while
And leave me with memories fresh.
There! Now you poise, ready to take to wings
You flutter – and a petal
Falls.
With wings so very fragile.
Flutters gracefully
Without sound
So delicate,
Never to be touched
For fear of breaking
Longs for warm comfort
Of a hug
But never to get one
Until it's cold and dead
How beautiful am I
She says
Then why
My friends
Do I never get loving affection?
I guess you're
right Cowboy
no one attains
anything but never
mind pretty soon the
typewriter demon
will come home
howling butterflies
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,--alone,
‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.