Pretty As a Picture

An epiphany that would not let me go.

I see her, a vision radiant in

summer red dress,

photosnapping a rabble

of human butterflies,

swirling.

 

"Miss Marriwhether, Miss Marriwhether"

-- a voice calls her name,

distracting her attempts

at meticulous composition,

at capturing this kaleidoscope 

of bodies

(their oblivious eyes just so,

darting,

their wayward wings just so,

flitting).

 

"Miss Marriwhether, Miss Marriwhether"

-- a voice calls her name,

distracting her, 

but not me, drawn to 

her meticulous composition.

 

I see (visioning her, radiant in

summer red dress,

swirling) that

it is not a rabble 

of butterflies

she has captured

but me.

 

Does she see (perhaps no,

perhaps yes) that

it is not a kaleidoscope 

of bodies

who are pretty

as a picture

but she.