Butterflies

So we met again today

and you said, 

I would now again

turn parts of our conversation

into poetry. 

Why would I? 

For what I feel in my being, 

upon your touch, 

isn't poetry at all! 

It's a rage mostly, 

sometimes a calm, 

a Tsunami often, 

even a Tempest, 

but certainly not words. 

To think of it, 

what I do feel in more expressible terms, 

is a metamorphosis of sorts. 

Icebergs in my mental landscape, 

melting from the warmth of you, 

and rivers springing

from underneath rock-beds, 

and forests sprouting out

of where there was only 

rot and decay, 

for long long years!

And long encapsuled bits and pieces of me, 

turning into butterflies, 

incessantly fluttering their gossamer wings, 

in my stomach and in my head, in my dreams! 

So if at all I do turn what we have into poems, 

it'd have to be on the richter scale, 

and in nautical miles and cubic feet per minute, 

and it'll require me to have the might of the earth, 

and the strength of the winds, 

and the depth of the seas! 

But I only have words!

November, 30th, 2023