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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460007" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Christmas butterfly</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps it had arrived undercover<br>between the rich dark green leaves<br>of the organic cabbage which from<br>the huge holes in its tough outer leaves<br>had brought it up so lively – perhaps<br>reared in some protected warmth, mimicking<br>the months when ‘ small cabbage whites’<br>are supposed to live – July to September.<br>Or had it flown in or been shipped in<br>from some warmer clime? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Christmas Day – was that the kitchen ceiling light<br>about to go? No, it was a butterfly, <br>frantically circling round and round<br>the low-energy bulb, not hot enough <br>to make an Icarus of its daring; always<br>clockwise round the bulb, I thought; <br>palest green to grey to white; frenzied; delicate..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At night, the light switched off, it rested somewhere; <br>then at evening, resumed its mad dance, <br>ceaseless lover, love unconsummated…<br>paid no attention to its cabbage home <br>there in the vegetable rack; only the light, the light…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Butterflies do not hear; it did not heed<br>my cries increasing in despair –<br>nothing like a butterfly net to hand; <br>I tried to bring it lower with a gentle spray<br>so that I could catch it; too wild its Maenad dance, <br>too high, too frenzied..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Two, three days passed; so much strength, <br>determination, endurance, in such a tiny thing; <br>no longer garden’s scourge; now a holy thing, <br>in which I saw myself; even wished to love; <br>we became of equal size, in the eyes of God…<br>as were we not always, from Creation’s birth? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fourth morning, I caught it in a cut-glass tumbler<br>against the window pane – the open window<br>had not tempted it – myself now talking to its unhearing, <br>as I did my father on his way to death…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">it settled in the glass, still moist inside<br>with orange juice; did you know, <br>butterflies taste with their feet…<br>they so quick to land and then take off…<br>such discrimination in those tiny feet, <br>that tiny brain, those tiny, <br>heroic muscles, devoted to its life and love…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It flew across the cold and winter garden<br>at such speed, I chose to see it joy or gratitude..<br>and then, was quiet for a time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tiny thing, <br>holy thing, <br>as near to God<br>as angel's wing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460007" data-title="Christmas butterfly de Michael Shepherd" data-description="Perhaps it had arrived undercover
between the rich dark green leaves
of the organic cabbage which from
the huge holes in its tough outer leaves
had brought it up so lively – perhaps
reared in some protected warmth, mimicking
the months when ‘ ..."></div>
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