Song for New Spring

Never was an active guy;
spent time watching seasons fly
or dreamgazing as whimsical thoughts floating by
glowed past the surface, with textures contrived.
Silently watching, recording the ply-
ing of minds, hands and butterflies fly-
ing to nectars which eluded my in-looking eye-
ing. Cocooned within my internal spy-
ing, I'd peer through the gauze with a "Why
do these movers succeed when they're try-
ing blindly without thinking as much as I?
Where comes this modus operandi
by which these shakers are stimuli
to a world quite respondent (except when I try)?"

The difference I now begin to surmise
between me and the busier butterflies
lies in what the flowers supply
to which creatures happen to apply.

The worm sees it in terms near lupine.
He wolfs down its heart and withers its shine
then turns consumed with his need to dine.
The flower's supply requires it die.
The dream is consumed when worms blunder by.

The only gift that the flower provides
to the waiting pupae is shade for the hi-
ding from glaring day. There's no stri-
ving for succor. Shielded, he bides time
and waits in the shade with his anodyne
skeins obliterating flowers and sky.
He's the greatest of worms, now reti-
red. So what if his dreams he never aqui-
red? The flower's supply exemplifies
a dream from which the pupa will hide.

But when brilliant imago flutters and flies
flowers galore assault her plethora-eyes
and trumpet an intimate, challenging cry
to land on the lip and creep up deep inside
to kiss at ambrosia and know the sublime.
Both bright-petalled beings understand time,
both portioned only days (maybe nine).
Together each the other supplies
a means to fruition before each one dies.

The great magic of the butterfly
is to dance with her dream and to leave it alive
for she knows to take only what is requi-
red to swim on the wind and for love to aspi-
re. She keeps a portion of dream at her side
to merge with more dreams and multiply
flowers ensuring that they thrive,
dreams upon dreams beyond her last sigh.