Butterflies Sleep Under Leaves Poem by elysabeth faslund
Butterflies Sleep Under Leaves
I falter at the steps before the brass doors.
A crucifix veiled in waxed flames, haloed
By garlanded Marys...
Does it wait beyond the cold, empty aisles?
Into what bed did I slip, calling, 'Daddy, I'm afraid'?
Father, I am afraid.
I want to replant every altared Easter Lily,
If only I were a gardener to use
These muddy fingers.
Didn't you know? Butterflies never die, but
Sleep under leaves all winter.
Unpainted wings on Judean hills echoed a God
The children should know of.
I would have taught them for Your sake...
And theirs.
But I dreamed of a cripple that I married once.
He tried to enter the door...and, with my flowers
I ran. And ran away, knowing the petals would
Wither.
The cripple loved You.
Aren't mornings more than clouds and a sun?
I've opened every one of your gifts...tags, string,
Shiny things.
No dirt or rocks, thorn or leaf, twisted root...
The treasures windows keep.
The curtains are too long in winter, when...
When whatever happens.
I believe in butterflies.
Pray to your God for me.
I cannot talk to strangers with candy
Or warm eyes.
Yesterday was a cloudy, windy, drissly, gloomy day. Right now I am enjoying the bright sun light shining through the window and loving your poem. My eyes are like yours.
The juxtaposition of Christian and natural symbolism is dazzling. Successive readings reveal multiple layers of buried treasure.
Superb write. I agree with Alison and Susie. This is one of your best. So fragile, beautiful and elegiac. I also believe in butterflies because, for me, they are a symbol of new life. Take care. Love, Sandra
Absolutely fantastic: the Freudian element, psychoanalysis arrayed in the best poetic robes, the Easter lily with its multiple implications, the child-dad element, and above all the indescribable beginning. One of your best. Susie xx
This is a strong, beautifully crafted piece about the church and fear and choices. You plant little clues along the way, like the Easter lilies, the cripple who loved You and the trinkets you received as presents. The line 'Into what bed did I slip, calling, 'Daddy, I'm afraid'? is terrifying. And yet the butterflies don't die in your eyes. They remain ever light and immortal. A stunning write about the disappointment of a religious fairytale past. Leaves quite a taste. love, Allie xxxx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 3:26:09 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Your work is absolutely brillant. I never get tired or bored when reading you! You have got it going on! Best wishes, Theo