grief & butterflies

this poem is a white rose.

it is sweet smelling sentences

planted in the heart through the ear

that blossoms into a dirge:

this is a song of woes,

of a flower's fate at bloom–

to be plucked to please the nose,

or give beauty to a room.

this poem is heavy nectar.

it is bitter on our tongues,

bile in our throats.

it is wretching as we wail,

kneeling in a still meadow

in a quiet, peaceful valley

praying to the wind to hear

a heart or wing beat. 

this poem becomes a butterfly.

it becomes the catharsis of wings

after a caterpillar slowly,

painfully sheds its grief.

©Marcel