“Oh, look!” I cried, and pointed to the ground:
A pair of faery wings were folding straight,
Like covers on a book of color plates,
Belying its content with earthen browns—
A book that Prospero might well have drowned.
Before it with your camera you kneeled,
But shook your head and drew back with a sneer,
Then turned away.
“Just look where he lit down!”
Upon a stick of dung beside the brook,
The butterfly reopened his bright wings
As though he were a priest, whose holy book
Revealed the beauty in all natural things
As good and evil, intertwined as one.
You always could find fault where there was none.