It is said if you meet the Buddha
you meet the goddess, but then
a Butterly lands on your shoulder
and you are staring at an orb in the sky.
And the next day, by the fringe of the sea,
you find a drenched monarch
the tip of his left wing missing,
and kneel down to get closer to the suffering –
extend your finger,
the one that accuses.
and she clutches you with her legs,
one part of her In the sky,
the other clinging to the edge of a finger.
The threads of her short life
are forever entangled with yours.
You carry her to the trunk of a fallen tree,
stroke her good wing,
as she clings to skin and salt and blood.
This is how it goes –
one moment you are strolling on a hot winter day
and the next balancing life & death,
the broken wing of a butterfly
the only kiss you need.