You. Still.

How gentle, this thing was
Like the breath of a butterfly dreaming
(Do butterflies breathe? Do they dream?)
As though there was nothing there,
But I felt its gossamer touch nonetheless.
Like delicate wings barely having touched skin.

It made me not want to grip,
And have shields made of flowers.

Maybe I had too large a hand,
For such a faint thing to bear being on.
Maybe it awoke from a dream,
A dream of a man in the ancient East,
Or it was dreaming of humans.
No matter. This butterfly also made me dream.

No matter what awoke from both dreams,
My shields are now stones.

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