The butterfly, rolled in the blind,
A shape of grey against the gold,
Becomes its shape again, unrolled,
Still as a photograph, defined
By sun that shadows it, behind.
Leaves of the roses, too, are cast
Upon this theatre of light,
Stirring like wings prepared for flight
But, like the butterfly, caught fast
This bush, this blind — nothing will last.
Not even that slow-burning star,
Source of the greatest gift, our sight,
Making our existence bright
With knowledge. Still, that time is far
Ahead. And this is where we are.
