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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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The butterfly that would not land

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A moment there I saw you on the leaf;
wings touching, touch, then fluttering away.
Departure caught me muttering my grief,
and then I ran to catch you all the day.
You often looked to land, but then would miss
the flowers fair that offered you their dew;
since you were made for drinking deep in bliss,
I wondered why no landing came for you.
You seemed to feel you could not rest your wings
a moment, lest you know the love I bore;
remembering instead the many things
that called you to be weary ever more.
Thus all my hopes were built on sinking sand;
I loved the butterfly that would not land.

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