Straining at the pane

 

Not one hour had passed

on this time shifting day

and you gave, again,

a gift outside.

 

Behold just in front of my breast

the very first butterfly straining

at the pane, flying nowhere

for the flowers of ecstacy

are as yet, with me, inside.

 

Wait, just a little and shift.

Your direction is clearer

than pressed glass,

even crystal.

 

Turn around  with our sun

to see all that garden,

works there,

arrayed flutes piping,

abundance my dearest winged one.