It is World Poetry Day,
when it is better not to meet the poets,
so I am taking our labrador Luna to the park.
One yellow butterfly
– in the name of the first day of spring –
draws its orbit of freedom from earth to sky.
It looks as if we are all made of sun,
though the source of the poetry
of our world remains invisible.
Like that butterfly’s drawing in the air,
the glimpse you try to catch before
is already gone for good.