i dreamt of butterflies
that came at five before sunrise
they were pink and blue and purple,
pastel like my favorite colors.
each looked like crayons on paper
except they were moving with the wind
in synchronized fleeting movements,
like the passing of memories.
they were talking in hushed silence
with secrets unknown to all
dancing an ancient tune
that even time was not a witness.
i stare.
oh, my heart longs to know.
American Painted Lady
