At one time, and most supposed it, listening to a
butterfly: flitting about, wavering midair, it seemed easy. I can’t presume it,
beyond signs, scribbling a few notes. With days veiled, dialing esoteria,
behaving like a mannequin, or symbolic as a mime, and many weren’t paying much
attention. Can’t say much. A little boxed away. One understands. Writing is
breaking fears. To preach it, is to remember it, with souls forgetting it. To
bleach it—to water it down—one might deign to receive it; the human soul,
spirit as it moves, numen properties, with much unexplained. One tries to unbox
it. It flows differently. Upon a daffodil, roaming atmosphere, holding the
goodness of arts; turning in circles, blowing at a dandelion, feeling sunshine—one
would have destiny. With pushing. With society. With life. To have myriad
zinnias, foxgloves, worries, plucking patience, a petal in a jar. Not one for
ignoring facts, nor ironing over each wrinkle, nonetheless, a soul with
presence, to hear essence, to unveil a feature.
