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 cannot 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.