713 Butterfly [12 June 2005]

In my life I have searched for something.
The thing, the idea beyond words
that kept my heart from dying.
I never knew what it was until now.
It is the unmistakable emotion,
drowning one in its pristine silver waters,
encompassing the soul in its promise.
Whether I search for it still, or not,
this I cannot say and perhaps never will.
I give up easily, deciding that if it is to be,
it will invariably come to me of its own will.
In my past I have chased it,
followed the heart’s erratic path,
flitting about on the wings of a butterfly.
One red and indigo, briefly landing,
only to fly off once more.
If only it would land and stay,
embraced in the silken folds of the net
belonging to someone who wished to capture it,
to hold it close to their own heart.
Those it followed never stayed,
watching with fascination at its movement,
turning away in the end,
perhaps touched, perhaps amused
by its inexperienced flight.
Sometimes I can forget this pain.
Ignore the longing that renders my heart in two,
but never forever can it do so completely.
I often wonder what it would feel like
to be on the receiving end of the care
I offer freely to those who merely passed by,
to ensconce my self in that person’s life,
surrounded by their tender attentions
aimed to keep me for their own.
What would that feel like?
To open my eyes one morning,
rain pattering steadily outside,
the gray infusing the early hours
with a strange enchanted aura
as I would turn to find him there.
If this dream is but a futile effort,
then let me sleep on.
Let the butterfly fly on until its colors fade
darkening into the ending that is of life.
Or better yet, never let it leave its cocoon,
let it fester there, harboring and concealing,
all the pain that would remain unnoticed,
if it is allowed to survive.

© Johanna Fugitt 2017

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