The Butterfly

I stopped to write a poem today
And saw a little butterfly.
We've walked at least a hundred years
Across this land, my pack and I.
Now I've made friends at every stop
But never had much cause to stay.
I rested on a length of log
Then continued on my way.

And the little fellow followed
And flew beside me on the road.

He moved along his special way
And I, of course, proceeded mine.
He broke the silence with no sound
And I, but to compose my rhyme,
Was careful not to speak.
While watching him and not the lane
I stumbled, knee into a stone,
And slowed my pace to ease the pain.

He didn't mind that we had slowed
But flew beside to ease my load.

A thousand times I've tried to hear
The sound of Mother Nature's sigh.
I never saw a sign of her
Until I met that butterfly.
My song began to ease my pain
As the butterfly showed the way
To know the beauty of the clouds
That often seem to dull the day.

The little butterfly then glowed
As we travel down God's road.

The thought then came: this gift of rhyme;
This gift to me of form and word;
A poem, like the butterfly,
Becomes a tribute to the Lord.

Hannah, my daughter, found this poem in a book of poetry I wrote while I was in college for an eclectic group of kindred souls. That book, typewritten, faded yellow, bound with a shoestring, has been part of our "family" for longer than Hannah's entire life. She read every poem and called our attention to this one—then retyped it herself as a gift to her father.

Copyright © 1998-2005. Michael Quin Heavener. All Rights Reserved.