The butterfly didn’t fly away,
Yet. Nor did the flower deflate,
Its swollen urn-shaped base, behind
The delicate flat white petals.
Are they waiting, like me, for some
Other future moment? Of course they are!
But their moment, copulation, lets them
Wilt, wither, die, then crumble or decay.
They might never copulate, and wither
Anyway. No shame blocks their beauty,
Flowing, intricate, trembling, into the world,
Swelling and collapsing with waves of life and death.
The butterfly is waiting, wholeheartedly
For something its nervous system
Can’t imagine, will barely survive.
This butterfly, waiting
Is what not waiting looks like.
Waiting 2
It has been five minutes. Thank you ever so bever so much.