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 even without the crooked teeth of the right-hand margin, except for Hallmark Cards with their obligatory monarchs. The best I can do is note all the flutterbys I failed to net. Why butter, I wonder? Flutter is better than butter, so say I 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 so from now on I’ll take my toast dry, thank you, and that could be my butterfly moment with patterns made by my toaster oven on the low-carb, high fiber Keto bread, but hold the excrement, and besides what other species is named after their poop, I ask you?

 

The trouble with moments is that they are relentless.There goes another uncatchable one. I can’t imagine that butterflies enjoy being pinned, after all, life is short enough orchestrating their symphony among the wildflowers. I wonder if their brief days are a frenzy or are there patterns, as in toast, we can't see? Jesus, is that you, Jesus or is it Walt Whitman? To be permitted to hold my gaze into those leaves of grass. if only for a split nanosecond, seems to me a better use of butter as they flutter by.  I'll be on the wings of the lepidoptera as it dreams of its past life as a caterpillar. 

If any of the above makes sense to you I would advise seeking help from a professional or else enter into the chaos of a poetic cauldron.There's not a moment to lose.