The Butterfly Does Not Ask the Wind

A butterfly unfolds its wings,

And gladness to the meadow brings.

Its yellow catches in the sun,

And, for a breath, my fears are gone.

It does not ask the wind to stay,

Or grieve when warmth has passed away.

It loves the flower without claim,

Then leaves it just as free as when it came.

Within this breath, I find my place,

While the unknown unveils its face.

Still, something in the soul must know

The road to walk, the way to go.

Yet roads will bend and plans will break,

And cherished dreams may not awake.

Some doors will close despite my prayer;

The path begins with meeting what is there.

The Buddha spoke of sorrow’s dart:

One wounds the flesh, one wounds the heart.

I cannot stop what life may send,

But I can choose the wounds I will defend.

For love is not a tightened hand,

Nor vows that force life to a plan.

It is the courage to remain

Without demanding shelter from the rain.

I cannot make your heart my own,

Or ask that it stay carved in stone.

To love you is to let you be,

Not bind your changing soul to me.

The wind knows nothing of our fate,

It neither comes too soon nor late.

It moves through every open door

But never lingers on the shore.

No life exists by our will alone;

The seed needs rain, the road needs stone.

Each fleeting thing that comes to be

Is held by all that we may never see.

So when expectation clouds my sight,

I will not wrestle with the night.

The moon is whole behind the gray;

What I cannot see is not swept away.

Your smile may vanish like the spring,

As must each dear and lovely thing.

But impermanence does not betray;

It teaches us to cherish what cannot stay.

And when this borrowed breath is through,

No hand can hold what breath once knew.

Yet love, released from “mine” and “me,”

Returns like every river to the sea.