JOSEF LESSER

 

The Butterfly

  

Last night

(and before then

the full day

before)

the full moon

crying like a lost child

crept into the warm bosom of stars.

My first thought lingered in the valley,

lingered for the first word to arise.

 

First awareness:

The first sight of spring;

                        firsts all on the up-draft followed-

from that first word to the first wound

from the first burning sun to the first smile

from discovering hate to the first stirring

the first rain the first parting; then loss.

The first butterfly

first fresh wheat first morning sky.

 

Without each first my thoughts would stumble,

sink forever in the soft snow of the valley below,

without words no thought

without thought no words.

 

Last night

(and before then

the full day

before)

the full moon

crying like a lost child

crept into the warm bosom of stars;

a butterfly sat on my window

clothed in designer outfit

the colour of fresh wheat and morning sky,

sat in the hue of my first sun

then revealed in the blue of the night by the light

all my firsts in his eyes.

 

From that valley

from the rising smoke of all my yesterdays

can I share with you my visitor

who came, gave and departed?

 

 

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