Chasing Butterflies

You are as I remember
Hair blown back
From root to back

As always you hover
No, not as if being pulled
Nor as if in pulling

Rather, hovering
As if inspired by the tethers
Left in your wake

And you sit
Rather, it is the chair
That seats you

As if in knowing
The princess which you are
Of crown and taffeta of your own

Not as others may see you
Rather, as I see you
Have seen you

As a guest in my dreams
Until I wake
With shy remembrances

Of your image
Having been fixed
Upon my sight

Now solely impressionistic
In scattered strokes
Strewn like...

What may have been
The limbs of butterflies
I chased in my youth