Butterfly

There was a butterfly.

On the tip or your nose,

I think, or perhaps it was simply in your eye,

Lashes fluttering as wings,

Whooshing breeze into my smile,

and there was a butterfly. 

There was a butterfly, 

Standing, waiting, on the tip of your finger,

or perhaps that was my skin.

I begin, to feel better.

There was a butterfly. 

There was a butterfly,

I saw it in your teardrops, 

flying past in the sodden breeze.

You cried but smiled, 

and your light touch was in my hand. 

There was a butterfly.

There was a butterfly.

I say was, 

because butterflies do not believe in permanence. 

Butterflies are free, you were always a creature of the world,

and even the leverage in my tree-like limbs could not hold you back,

and I remember,

thinking now, 

that there was a butterfly.