"to be touched..."

i was five that
magical summer
we lived
on the farm...

i would sit on the
front stoop and look
out across
fields of sorghum,
alfalfa,
and  a sea of grain
the color
of cornsilk...
it moved like a golden
ocean beneath
a pale blue
sky

one afternoon
while I picked at the
peeling paint
along the porch railing
a tiny butterfly
with pale,
lavender
wings -- as transparent and
delicate as
the petal of a pansy -- 
landed on the
newel
post near my hand...

I was smitten.

I became obessed with
touching her

I wanted to see if her wings were
as soft as they appeared.

I ran into the kitchen and found
the wire colander
returning to the porch with
only one mission...
to catch
a
butterfly, and hold it
in my hands.

I raced from zinnias
to marigolds,
from the squash blossoms trailing
along the worn pickets of the
garden fence,
to the apple tree near the
corn crib...

but I could not seem to
make her mine.

the sun was high and
hot, and
the porch steps were
shady,
they
beckoned me towards
a whisper of cooler breezes
and the scent of
hollyhocks, mallow flowers
and sweet william
along the
stone foundation.

I thought if I could just watch her
for a while I would figure out
a way to trap her so that
I could hold her in
my hand,
or a mason jar....just for a while.

But as I watched, the
clouds moved,
the cows in the pasture
lowed,
and my eyes grew heavy

When I woke...
my back curled against the
bottom porch rail...
she was
sitting on my hand as
it lay across the handle of the
wire colander...tasting
my skin with her
tiny lips

i did not stir...

she must have wanted to
touch me,
as much as I wanted to
touch her.

I only needed stop, and
let her
make the first
move...