I imagine every wing-beat sings
the serene truth, too wild to believe,
All this crazy existence rides on the wings of butterflies.

The wash of sun, from the top of the sky speaks to me warmly,
“This flutter, this dance, this kindness,
the thousands of tiny feet upon your naked flesh
is neither piety or sin – it is the announcement
of God in the moment.”

“Alleluia,” I think. I think
“Yes, I exist, blind and deaf,
alone and surrounded
by the heavy feet of those who dare not.”

I exist amidst the dream
a million thimbles full with chocolate pudding
in the minuscule hands of butterflies
coming furiously toward this perfect instant.

All of existence relies on
this madness of peace,
this impossible truth of love
and this wanton joy
that where we fly does not matter
so long as what we carry is sweet
and fulfilling.