(Our bodies will return to the dust of the earth, and the breath of life will go back to God, who gave it to us. The Bible: Ecclesiastes, Ch. 12 V. 7)
The man dreams in his chair.
Runs home from the fields
to present this trophy
to his mother.
A living gemstone;
a Painted Lady.
Its life tickles his palm.
Lightly touches for air
in his fleshhouse hand.
He holds firm.
A boy's excitement not allowing this life
to flutter away.
Opening his hand for her
he starts at the stillness
of the creature's crushed colour.
He holds his fist tight again.
Tries again.
The butterfly is dead
again.
He can't go back
make it all better.
Opening and closing just pounds the thing
to dust.
An hourglass-trickle dunes at his feet.
He clenches his fist
in anger at the mess he's leaving
but can't stem the flow
no matter
how hard he tries.
The man sits in his chair.
He sits there for several days
in the exact
same
position.
Day after day
he cannot hear
the post that is collecting
for his daughter to reply:
"Unfortunately my father died
some time ago."
In his hands
clasped as tight as tight
she will find the breath
he refused to give back.
Useless
useless to him now.
