For a moment, I think the poem
is locked in my aching fingers,
trapped behind my stiff wrists,
like a butterfly under a glass,
the beauty is there but I can't touch,
can't pull it close and put it into words.
My mind is an eddy of numbers,
swirling without an end
or even a beginning,
but I see the way the light plays
on an empty beer bottle,
how the birds in the ponds
look like the ants at my feet,
the way a smile grows slowly
and makes your face softer.
Like I tip the glass so carefully
the butterfly can climb on fingers
and I can touch something beautiful,
even if I can't put the day into words.