"The Winter World Where My Heart Waits To Breathe"
A baby-blue butterfly
fluttering through an icy grove—
cold in the snowy cage that keeps it,
the crystalline bars of its cell
cracking, falling, piercing.
All the frozen teardrops
that once bejeweled the solid lake,
and draped icicles and beds of snowflakes,
and dead, white trees,
for the time being.
This once icy crypt is warming—
a thing deep underground is breaking free
and waking the wintry world,
forcing red into this white waiting room
that only goes on because it has to.
A consciousness is blooming in fresh jade,
and a boiling sun begins to melt the what-was.
There are clouds now,
and though I may be blind,
I am warm, and glowing.
My heart used to be blue veined,
destined to die a cold, glittering death,
but love happened.