In the Younger Days

Come into my heart
with ravenous delight
and there find butterflies
gathered by the mid-afternoon pools.


They rise with cymbals
and sweep towards the sun
on the last thoughts of the storm
as it heads into the nothingness
of bright days.

Let time be an orphan
and duty an unfed beggar.
They howl and are unanswered
While the young of all ages
Go about the business
Of astoundment.

Do not pause:
it is against the rules.