Poetry

In fever, I will 
always see butterflies 
landing on your nose. 
 
White, yellow, black. 
They come and go and I am 
sitting under a cherry blossom tree. 
 
Stroking you, cajoling you 
to drop the wings. 
 
In grass the sun waits 
in a dew drop. 
 
The moon was not a poor thing. 
Will come in white robes 
to preach.