You moved your hand slowly towards the buddleia
as if you thought a butterfly would land on your arm.
You didn’t know what you were doing – how could you?
Then the chasm seemed unbridgeable
between hope and what we learn,
between blackening dream and bright blue air
and you hid from those who saw you in the garden.
But what you hoped for
wasn’t what you thought it was –
often lately, there’s a lapse during the heat of day
when I’m brought back from the current of what I’m thinking
and what seemed a chasm
is a small step down into the wellspring.
Sometimes all I need now is paper and a pen
for the boy and butterfly to land.