Flight of the Butterfly: Slivers of Memory

Slivers of memory

Flitting through time

Like miniature, white butterflies

Bursting out of cocoons;

Taking flight

In total abstraction,

They fly,

Momentarily,

Disappearing on the wind

Only to return later,

Further enhanced

And newly mystified;

"What doorway

Will this new butterfly enter?"

The man ponders silently;

Still seated in reality's cold chair,

He reaches out his crippled hand

To catch each tiny butterfly

That quickly flits on by,

Ones that only he can only see

In his mind's eye;

Maybe he knows

That he can never catch them

In the fading windows of time,

But he can still enjoy them

Right to the last,

And he does.

He smiles.

"See my butterflies?"

He asks his absent partner.

He waits,

But no one answers.

There is no one there.

He is all alone,

With his slivers of memory

Flitting through time

Like miniature butterflies.

Slivers of memory with old age, can still bring joy.