A poem touches down
and flutters like a butterfly,
a lovely image hovering.
Its wings are strings of words
beckoning you closer
to read,
to listen,
to understand.
Words beat out the rhythm
of thundering war drums,
or tap the sweeter beat
of a sonnet, a ballad.
They draw you into an ocean,
waves washing over you,
leaving you powerless in vast deepness,
and knowledge,
and meaning.
The butterfly flaps its wings.
Meaning changes,
the message falls out of focus.
The words blur, but the beauty remains.
