For you my heart pounded, oh so long I had waited,
a gift of divine perfection would you always mine be.
In awe at the sculpture of your tapered fingers I marveled
when for the first time ... mine eyes beheld thee.
The picture is in my scrapbook tho its edges have yellowed,
of us doing the dishes, that moment I cherish.
Your red hair Mom fashioned twin braids with blue ribbon,
cling tightly to such moments lest memories perish.
For your recital, oh special day, at long last we gathered.
Before us sparkling pixies dancing all on toeshoe
when fluttered past me a butterfly, but one like none other.
Down every cheek ran tear drops of dew.
When she curtsied, I gasped, my breath nearly stolen,
so count these precious seconds of which there are few.
My heart did break though mend it did quickly.
Before me I see its shadow still lingers ...
whose delicate grace will ever beauty inspire
there are none quite as lovely as my butterfly's fingers.
Alan D. Busch