I've added butterflies to the desk
to flutter as I type, in a somewhat
inanimate sort of way, stuck there
to the wood in a forever frozen pose.

Blue and red beauties that I'm sure
never flew on wing to anywhere
except here, amongst the treasures
of my life in sad display.

Yet they bring a sense of flight
simply with presence of wing, and
span, there, captured with artists
brush, still life of lacey movement.

They take me out of this small room in
mind. Travelling as fantasy of thought,
into lightest air I am set free
upon the flutter of butterfly wings.

WhiteRose 11/10/02