Against the eager surf
pounding the monuments of stone,
unperturbed, a butterfly in pantomime
carves a yellow arabesque
– a hieroglyphic script engraved
with an instant’s wing
on the oblivious air.
I, reading the runic sign, would hope
or, God willing, would be certain
just as I am certain I should be sure –
oceans and insects, like men,
for seasons or eternities,
equally, as they say, endure.

Kirby Congdon

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