JOSEF LESSER
The Butterfly
Last night (and before then the full day before) the full moon crying like a lost child crept into the warm bosom of stars. My first thought lingered in the valley, lingered for the first word to arise.
First awareness: The first sight of spring; firsts all on the up-draft followed- from that first word to the first wound from the first burning sun to the first smile from discovering hate to the first stirring the first rain the first parting; then loss. The first butterfly first fresh wheat first morning sky.
Without each first my thoughts would stumble, sink forever in the soft snow of the valley below, without words no thought without thought no words.
Last night (and before then the full day before) the full moon crying like a lost child crept into the warm bosom of stars; a butterfly sat on my window clothed in designer outfit the colour of fresh wheat and morning sky, sat in the hue of my first sun then revealed in the blue of the night by the light all my firsts in his eyes.
From that valley from the rising smoke of all my yesterdays can I share with you my visitor who came, gave and departed?
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