One form of life is dream.
The Blue Morpho butterfly,
a silence on my wall
among chairs, couch, piano,
dreaming under glass.
Birthday gift,
the most beautiful of wings,
larger than my hand.
It’s no matter
beyond life’s flight
that I see it
in the morning dawn.
I would not mind
if someone found it pleasant
someday to see me,
a picture,
smiling, the remaining image
of a life,
and someone would say
to themselves,
you are happiness
of what was and remains.
So the gift wakes a dream,
like the wings of the
Blue Morpho,
what was and remains
its beautiful dream
in the heart and eyes.