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The Time on the Butterfly Clock
Measuring the stately rhythm of brass in motion,
The old Grandfather cuts the day into even parts,
As conforming and close to perfect sameness,
As nineteenth century craftsmanship can come.
Across the room from that well-made device
is a great brass and wood framed window that faces the east
So that every morning the face of the rising sun
meets the face of the grandfather clock.
If you were to look out the window and down
(Standing on a chair, if you were a child still)
You would see a startling embrace of many flowers
Petals open wide as if offering affectionate hugs or more
And coming down to kiss these blooms are
the butterflies. For in response to the beat
of sun and bloom and wind and chance, they come.
And look what they do, each and every one.
With uneven rhythm of wing in motion,
each wing-beat measures out a flash of color and motion,
that marks each moment with a unique stamp
that owes nothing to calendars and schedule books.
If you were to remember forever this instant of your life,
Would you mark by hours and minutes frozen on the face of the clock?
Or would you hold to yourself the life around you, and in you -
Your heart beating and unfolding to the tick of a Butterfly Clock?
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