I, the confident butterfly, the hopeless romantic, knowing death be imminent, flutter in the crushing heat, repose quietly in the shimmering stillness of life’s painterly field, ever-loving the mysterious, caught in the spirit of the brilliant ballad, momentarily lost in its fascinating narrative.
I, the pliant dancer, the sheer essence of extravagant mime, of colorful description, the creation of story, of fire, the graceful movement of every aching muscle, fractured feet, the skillful documentation of experience, welcome bright-eyed applause and nightfall as an angelic friend.
I, the fragrant, the straight, the greenest fir tree, with needled bough, proudly heavy with embroidered silver snow and years of knowing, bend in graceful acceptance; have learnt to embrace the bitter, the desolate, relentless cold, the biting wind, as a well-meaning and apologetic brother.
I, the growling wild animal, the cave-dweller, the grumbling lone hunter, sinews stretched to capacity, have felt the extreme lack, the hunger, have been alone and without, grown thin, have survived dreaming through empty winters, always believing in the promise to come.
I, the faithful, the floundering, fragile human, grow aged, a childhood fed on endless dreams, a restless adult playing out in imagination’s subterranean fields, born to ever long for love and acceptance, know to will and voice reality, patience, grateful for thee, for every jonquil blossom.

© Sinéad AnLile
Copyright reserved
18 November 2011