In a reaching room,
sunlight bathes crawling windows,
drizzling bounding butterflies who
waltz by budding Buddleia and Asclepias.
Their paper wings bleed
crimson, flame, marigold, indigo,
staining the opalescent atmosphere.
Cast in the explosion of their beauty,
is a profound valley of inexorable effulgence;
I perceive the phantasmagoria of
sentience accompanying my consciousness.
I worm and perspire at the gorgonizing contrast
of white circumferences set against
black outlines that mimic sight.
Atop my shoulder, one winged creature lands-
causing my dread to crescendo.
Conquered by the encounter,
a thought reverberates:
let it be not what I witness of them,
but what they distinguish of me.
That the horizon of the valley is impermeable,
is a specious account;
what precedes the transience of its depth,
is the significance of its familiarity.
