the year of the butterfly

my lost breath

the tears of angels

into swamps, into bogs

yes, i have drowned that way before

and been forgiven

come to life again

the better

for it has been accepted

that the horns we grow

as easily can turn to wings

the things we harness

can be released again...

your small fingers

how they've grown

and what they hold

impact me more than even springtime

with its promise

with its bounty

with the oldest truth

whispered in its winds...