Butterfly Buddha
 
You tell me about a childhood place
called Butterfly Lane, and butterflies 
covering a buddleia, but I mishear 
and picture butterflies
flickering on the Buddha’s body
his palms open, upturned,
not shooing or grasping, but
inviting them to pause 
unmeasured, uncounted
on the surface of infinity.
 
I remember the words 
of a young man who said that
poems are in the world already
not dependent on us to let them in -
they’ll arrive if we don’t try too hard
to catch them. It’s not just a matter of
sitting back passively and waiting -
there has to be a revolution
on the inside to make space
for one butterfly to land.