It’s a bird.
It’s a plane.
It’s confetti with wings.
It’s little butterflies.
Hundreds of them.
Aloft in the wind.
Like ashes blowing hither and yon.
And fast, too.
Moths, as compared to butterflies, are generally smaller.
And less brightly colored.
Thus spake Trusty Webster.
But moths are chiefly night flyers.
So there goes that.
Must be butterflies.
Small, drab day trippers.
Fluttering all over the place.
All over town.
And to what end?
Now there’s a good question.
For one and all.
To what end?
What motivates us?
What is our intent?
What is the goal?
Desire dictates direction.
Thoughts can deceive.
Are we clear?
Are we sure?
Are we driven?
To what end?
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
That’s Dylan Thomas.
Renee Walker is a poet, writer, and real estate broker on the Square with her canine assistant, Buster.