Rhapsody on Breezes
The butterfly when chased goes still along
Its way unhurried, winging on in calm
As if Nirvana were its space. The wrong
May be its foe, but yet without a qualm
It flits in peace the Buddha would desire.
The evil net is reared up for the strike.
It slashes down. The butterfly flits higher
Up towards the sun. The wings avoid death’s strike
And carry on, freewheeling, random, white,
And setting out the grace of freedom, wild.
They angle, innocently sly, despite
The beaks of birds. Foreboding is reviled.
The butterfly seeks nectar held up clean.
Those wings are pure where they careen.
~ Phillip Whidden