Little butterfly with your slit wing do you believe you
cannot fly?
Is the flight you seek -- the very nature of your being -- elusive in a sorrowful way?
Even before your chrysalis, flight was yours.
Here, now, lie pink lilies extending their nectar in the
fields around you.
Tulips open wide and vulnerable, pressing towards the
nourishing yellow rays of the sun and craning their thin necks.
Neither strains to be its full potential.
Just arising in this colorful, delicate, sweetness.
When the dawn breaks and mauve clouds mottle the morning sky,
in an explosion of fiery hues,
And heaven kisses the gentle earth, its mate, good morning,
though they have been alone in their separation through the
night they embrace their suffering for
even as the architect calls forth the artistry from the
stone and space, it was never apart from the pure
potential from which it was birthed.
Ultimately what is not heard, seen, touched or conjured
by a
moving mind is inherently present, always.
And that divinity levels all, from the mightiest empires to
the most ephemeral fragrance.
It is that which is
most precious of all.
I would have you see yourself as you truly are, floating in
breezy currents.
Seeped in glorious
mystery.
Alighting on the invisible eddies of wind
Surrendered like a flame which worries not
about its particular
form the next moment.
For a flame can be nothing but fire and light.
Your wing is clipped not when a gash tears your folds.
Hurt though it may,
And you were no less beautiful as a caterpillar.
It is only when you close your mind to your own brilliant, infinite
radiance.
That you cannot flutter
