Alphabet Angels
The first time
he bent over the butterfly wing
and saw traced there
a fine, feathery "f"
he wondered if someone
was sending a message.
The silvery letter glittered
like an embroidered star.
Look here, it gleamed,
take in, notice the small
ordinary manuscript
on which the graces of the world
are penned.
He began to pay attention
to wing-beats and flutters.
Like some watch birds,
and others collect books
or stamps, he became an avid
reader of wings,
holding his breath
to discover what new
communication might be
encoded in swirls
and hovering splotches.
Here's a splendid "s"
a tender "t," an elegant "e,"
an iridescent "i."
Some so obvious, others
pale, half-hidden,
so that only true love
can uncover lace,
leaf-veins, lattice-work "l's."
This then, the ambition
and dream,
to find a fragile primer,
twenty-six beauteous
butterflies,
miniature alphabet angels,
whose swooping tissue—
thin bodies might spell out
anything.
Anything at all.
The first time
he bent over the butterfly wing
and saw traced there
a fine, feathery "f"
he wondered if someone
was sending a message.
The silvery letter glittered
like an embroidered star.
Look here, it gleamed,
take in, notice the small
ordinary manuscript
on which the graces of the world
are penned.
He began to pay attention
to wing-beats and flutters.
Like some watch birds,
and others collect books
or stamps, he became an avid
reader of wings,
holding his breath
to discover what new
communication might be
encoded in swirls
and hovering splotches.
Here's a splendid "s"
a tender "t," an elegant "e,"
an iridescent "i."
Some so obvious, others
pale, half-hidden,
so that only true love
can uncover lace,
leaf-veins, lattice-work "l's."
This then, the ambition
and dream,
to find a fragile primer,
twenty-six beauteous
butterflies,
miniature alphabet angels,
whose swooping tissue—
thin bodies might spell out
anything.
Anything at all.