The Butterfly incident
A butterfly flashed into my face
A stopwatch image of colorful contrasts
Gold as the promise of love
Black as the trap of hate
Just an instant, then away
A slight smudge on my glasses
Where has it gone
Is it still alive?
A stopwatch image of colorful contrasts
Gold as the promise of love
Black as the trap of hate
Just an instant, then away
A slight smudge on my glasses
Where has it gone
Is it still alive?
posted by Lane Savant at 3:08 PM
4 Comments:
Another rich poem ~ thanks! Were you on your bicycle when this happened? That would be momentarily pretty dangerous.
Thank you Robin, as a matter of fact, I was riding on my way to Maple Valley. No danger, not enough time to react, only a butterfly, much better than a bee, an eagle, or an F-14 at full speed.
Heron, the poem is about the transitory nature of life, beauty, and the opportunities that pass us on our journey. How can it be alive? What is it to be alive? You will have to supply your own answers. Do publish your thoughts.
Thank you for making me think.
The reality of the situation is that the butterfly flashed into my vision and was gone. I dont know if there was a collision or not or if the smudge was there before or not.
I guess this poem is kind of a restatement of "The moving finger writes and, having written, moves on" (sic) sort of thing.
Psychologically, it is a question about the people in my life, one in particular, who caught my attention for a short while and seemed to be very interesting and worthwhile and then was gone.
I often wonder if my (excessive speed) or some other fault of my own caused the rift. A "was it something I said" sort of thing. And yet we live in the same town and attend the same kind of entertainments.
Has the moving finger written, or has it just paused between sentances?
In the immortally inane words of Scarlett O'Hara, "tomorrow is another day"
I really appreciate the challenge you are presenting me.
Exactly, Heron Heard
I've just checked my archives and found another of your comments and answered it.
As Woody Allen put it "the heart wants what the heart wants". We live in society, whether we we choose to ignore it or not, so we have minds to control our actions.
Life is made out of stuff we cannot have. The butterfly is not necessarily about love, but the fleeting moments in life that make us wonder .
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