listen and read
From woods that yield to marsh,
from marsh that ponds into fields,
from fields that roll into a meadow,
a low cloud is following me.
It is light as light is light.
I turn around to look—
a cloud of butterflies!
Wing flappers, shudder flutterers,
As if limping along
like gimpy-legged me
was a most beautiful way to fly.
© Sharon Chmielarz