Garden flowers sleep through the storm,
I wonder where butterflies go
when it rains. My window wears tears,
a myriad of trickling gems
with rainbows growing inside them.
There is something primitive about this night.
Gauzed in with fog shrouding the mountains,
I remember moonlight, a constantly changing
phenomenon. Plato creeps into my mind.
It’s all a matter of perception
except for the wind.
**title of a song sung by the Kingston Trio