think of breath made visible in chilly air.

I think of the child
who nearly managed to faint
producing short-lived ghosts from his mouth.

Speaking from experience,
there is joy to be found here
and that must be worth something.

What our pride owns will collapse:
even-handed time insists the world we know 
be reduced to a rumour of Atlantis.

I believe a butterfly can cross the seas.
Something so slight- a butterfly; a fairy-tale;
may survive the deluges of deep time.

Only something so slight.
Such is poetry.