Along my pilgrim way to Poetry
a random word or thought of butterfly
proportions so commends itself that I
explore its every possibility --

- its rhymes, alliterations, and allusions,
its images (for instance, wings), the sense
of something stirring.

                                  As a consequence,
false starts abound, but point to no conclusions,
nor any middle. Just loose ends of things
to fiddle with.

                        Meanwhile, the butterfly,
restored to randomness, moves on to try
a more congenial clime
                (so much for wings).

But carry on, brave pilgrim. When the curse
is lifted, a rare poem may emerge,
a masterpiece whose grace and wisdom verge
on genius.

                  Or it may be just a verse.