I heard a story just the other day.
A butterfly flapped her wings
deep in the bamboo forest.
Apparently she cause a hurricane –
He wrote a poem of love and loss
rolled it and sealed it into a bottle
then cast it to the heaving sea.
She read it on a wind-swept beach –
Somewhere near Galilee.
I plucked a rose in autumn’s eve
a warmth it brought into my life,
when chills were hard to keep at bay.
It’s warmth soon failed and colour left –
I buried it in Yandanooka.
He hit her once or twice, early on.
It soon became her cross to bear
through years of servitude.
She slipped a knife between his ribs –
Hidden in bustling Calcutta.
This life, we choose it every day
and make of it, all that we can.
This freedom gives us many things;
Do we always consider the child –
Asleep in Pensacola.