Butterflies And Oracles Poem by royness ( ' ' )

It is the coldest Winter on record
for twenty years.
I’m not sure how we made it through December.

Outside, red-faced men and women
hurry past each other.
They walk with their arms
held tight around their chests.
They breathe smoke
and do not stop to talk.

It is the kind of cold that gets inside of us.
We seize up. Our smiles freeze over.
I keep my door shut to the world.
These windows have not been opened
in weeks. I breathe air
that is stale and thick.

Yet today is a tiny miracle.
I am dressing, getting ready –
I am going to meet the girl,
When a painted lady reveals herself
to me. She unfolds
her wings, so rare and delicate –
transformed – she dances
around the light-shade.

I cannot tear my eyes from her. I am afraid
she too will disappear.
I dream of coming back to find her
dead, because I couldn’t save her.
My hands search the room for a container,
not to capture or contain, but
to release her, to help her find her way.
I will be late, but know I cannot leave her.

Through the meeting, we talk
of trivial things.
We do not speak of butterflies,
oracles or signs. I fear
she will not understand me.
The painted lady
remains my secret spell -
precious coincidence, a happenstance.
All through the Winter, I see no other.

Later, we touch -
I chance a kiss.
The girl becomes my lover.