The Lightest Weight

The butterfly lands,

Busy as a bee

With sprezzatura,

Wings might as well be

Equivalent capes

To a bullfighter,

Here I am and slow

And easily torn

But with work to do.

If you couldn’t see

Color, if you weren’t

Prone to assign moods

To coincidence—

The dolphin’s fixed smile,

The lemmings’ despair—

If you could prevent

Yourself from telling

Meaningful stories

About aesthetics,

Metamorphosis,

Paradox, chaos,

You’d have so little

Bandwidth left you’d see

Papillon as bug,

As insect, getting

Food to fuel laying

Eggs under the leaves,

But you can’t help it.

These brilliant cut-outs

Of shimmering scales

Mean for you Psyche,

Soul, delicacy,

What you mean to be.