So much laughter is not heard.
Some butterflies troop across the
field and settle on various flowers.
They are hungry and they are some-
thing else as well—good-mannered
might be the word. For they dally;
they turn their eyes this way and
that; they feel into the well of
the flower, patting it. They act,
in short, as if the sweetness to
come is a gift that should first,
and without haste, be anticipated.
Their wings open and close, over
and over. They are that excited.
Though sometimes the curled tube
through which they drink opens
with what seems shyness. And the
foremost legs, dark and thin as
hairs, all but kneel at the rim
of the well. And since I too am
part of the household of the world,
I too am excited as they begin to
sip the gifts of the delicate cosmos,
the hilarious spiderplant, the bold
yucca, the heavy, heavenly lilies.
