Its Quiet Certainty, A Gift

A link of coincidences

hauled into consciousness

the engaging presence of a butterfly

caught swinging on its hinges –

its movement swift and purposeful,

alight with a radiant grace.

. . . . .

swirling…contending…teasing…tantalizing

. . . . .

Untouched by anything familiar, its glorious mystery of colour – agape with excitement, is carved so well into its nature where the textures of its previous life lay so well hidden from the vision it reveals. In its homelessness, adventurously it drifts midst the world it inhabits – greeting light, meeting shadow.

Pressed now to the wall, its unquiet eyes are frozen permanently to this still air. Most admirable is its composure, having been stripped of everything but its colour. There's a renewed appreciation for its balanced stillness that offers a touch of ambient distraction toward somebody else's consideration.


In the midst of this silence, a life – at peace in the breeze of its passing, is cast. Colours real enough to withstand the circumstance of nothing going on, create still, an art out of this newly rendered form embedded here forever in this unearthly ending place.

. . . . .

I've watched you now a full half-hour; 


Self-poised upon that yellow flower 


And, little Butterfly! indeed 


I know not if you sleep or feed. 


How motionless!--not frozen seas 


More motionless! and then 


What joy awaits you, when the breeze 


Hath found you out among the trees, 


And calls you forth again! 



~ William Wordsworth