Thursday, August 13, 2020

August 13: Writing with an Old Friend, Rekindle, "Butterflies Taste with Their Feet"

I spent this evening writing with an old friend.  Someone who I've known for over 30 years, and who shares my penchant for poetry and literature and dark humor.  We've reconnected after a very long time of being unconnected, and it seems as though we've picked up our friendship right where it left off.

It feels good to rekindle old friendships.  Even miraculous.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

Here is something I wrote this evening . . .

Butterflies Taste with Their Feet

Butterflies taste with their feet, nibble the world with each step, flit like debutantes from one cotillion to another.  They don't glut or gorge.  They're dainty in their waltzes, summer dresses.

I loved a butterfly once, took her to movies where she nestled on my buttery fingers as I ate popcorn.  Brought her home for Thanksgiving.  My mother smiled, said she had a good appetite, landing on the white meat, dark meat, canned cranberry, Stove Top, pumpkin pie.

Ours was a romance for the ages.  Romeo and Juliet.  Jane Eyre and Rochester.  Shakespeare and his Dark Lady.  Me and my butterfly, her wings the color of carrot and saffron.  I still dream of our time together.  How she would crawl over my body, taste my skin.  At rosy-fingered dawn, I would find myself blossoming, bursting open, unfolding my petals toward the long light of day. 

My pillow still smells of pollen.

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