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Under A Tree
18 October 2000
Butterflies around my head
Curious of the leaves
That get tangled in my hair.
My eyes dart
Curious of the colours
Spread and dotted on their wings
One drops
My palm cups it up curiously
The poor thing's feeble and barely twitching.
"Has it been a glorious fortnight?" I whispered.
I wondered if butterflies had curious little ears
That would listen as I, in the mood I am in, stared at the beautiful thing.
I wanted to see more of these
Curiously coloured butterfiles
As this one neared its death.
Twitching stopped.
I am no longer curious, neither are the others
They leave, zig-zagging rainbows the size of pebbles.
This one is still beautiful, colours are still radiant
At one adoring touch
It crumbles to dust
That I still feel on my fingertips.
---
Note: An after-exam squeezed-in-the-margins poem doodle. Yes, I did try to
put the word curious in every stanza(?). During the exam a butterfy flew in the
classroom and settled on the tip of a pen sticking out of my pencilbox.
Then it flew away out the other window.