I wonder. 

I wonder whether butterflies have been told? 

I wonder whether they know?

If the rumour has got through to them after all these years. 

That they have become metaphoric. 

To the extreme. 

Pastiche. Simile. Picture. Meme. 
Resonance. Symbol. Awakening. Dream. 

Do they know? 
Surely they must? 

Yet. 

When I walked today, along the railway lines. 

As one so bright, in morning light. 
Balanced itself on the closest purple thistle. 
It was as if it wanted to say. 

‘Dear Human, stop thinking about me
Look at me instead, 
Look at me now
I am butterfly.’ 

So often trading meaning for moment. 
Poetic metaphor spirals the mind
Into one artistic creation
From another. 

Yet. Here. 
Was this butterfly.
Asking me. 
To look uncomfortably
Into its details. 
To watch. 
To See. 
It for it. 
Not anything else. 

Its form, and formation.
Its body, its shape. 
How it exists
As it is.
In a life cycle, basking in todays sunshine. 
Traversing thistles, delicate moves. 
As it is. 
No metaphor here. 

Just a butterfly being. 
In. This day. Today. 
Awake. Thinking free. 

See me for me. She said. 
As her orange wings opened into the sunlight. 
Slow down from the meaning, into the moment. 
And be. 
You and me seeking, present human. 

Of course I don’t don’t know. 
Why would I know
It would change everything if I did. 
So, its just me and this purple thistle, kid. 

Notice me, as I am. 
Just like you, as you are. 
I do not worry about what you make of me. 
And in the moment of here
There is no other time but now. 
To be. 

‘Notice my wings, and notice my legs
Slow down into the details. 
Focus on being, less about meaning. 
Into the flight we go.
Together’ she said. 

Together we’re free. 
Once meaning became being. 
Wonderment feeling. 
Relax. 
Into Being
Soul freeing.