Living In the Moment

 

Here I am,

trying to catch the butterfly of the moment

even though butterfly is one of those words

devoutly to be avoided in any poem

worth its anti-gravity

( unless you work for Hallmark Cards.)

The best I can do is note all the flutterbys

I failed to net. Why butter, I wonder?

Flutter is better than butter, I contend.

And now I know the answer

though I wish I could withdraw the question

because their excrement looks like butter

so says Google as if it were a flying cow.

From now on I’ll take my toast dry, thank you,

and that could be my butterfly moment,

patterns made by my toaster oven

on the multi-grained, high fiber, whole wheat.

Hold the excrement.

 

The trouble with moments is that they are relentless.

There goes another one.

I can’t imagine butterflies enjoy being pinned.

after all, life is short enough 

orchestrating their symphony

among the wildflowers. 

Are their brief days a frenzy

or are there patterns, as in toast, we can't see?

(Is that you, Jesus or is it Marx?)

To be permitted to gaze into the vivid unseen

if only for a split nanosecond seems to me

a better use of butter as the fly flutters by

with me on the wings of the lepidoptera.