The Girl with Butterfly Hands

When I was little I was told

About a girl with butterfly hands

With eyes like little moons

With hair like bottomless cascades

And to the touch,

A swan’s feathery body

Her pale, slender fingers would join

Into pale, slender wrists

Bound together by chains

But when I found the girl

With butterfly hands

What I saw

Was not a rose

Whose thorns were cut by steel

Whose blood hesitated to roar

But rather,

The massive intensity

Of infinite blues, greens, purples, blacks

And the peaceful calm

Of the eye of a storm

What I found

Was not a piece of jewelry

Was not to be eyed and touched

Or shown off

No,

Behind those moonshine eyes

Lies an endless lake

Stirred by the whipping winds

Of a thunderous vortex

Searching for an end