Behold the Butterfly

Perhaps the butterfly, wings etched with stars, moons and suns, is nothing more than an expansion into lightless light, darkless dark. Once set in motion she passes from spray to spray along unkempt meadows where grass blades pushing upward are as seeds completing their shape; where the music of finches darting overhead composes a wordless song.   

Maybe it is in the form of a butterfly that we might most enjoy the springtime, dallying with leaf and flower as nectar rises in the rigid stems of blossoms bursting open within its flow. Before long a rustle in the grasses calls for our keenest attention, as here as anywhere the slightest pinch or flick of motion or sound conveys an impression of something living everywhere within, born of the same small twig of pulse.