I spent some of the time I spent healing from cancer writing poems about butterfly and moth metamorposis. 48 poems. I lost all of them when the computer crashed. My fault for knowing I had to do back-ups but being to lazy to do it. My friend Jan is correct when he says that there is always a new idea or a new poem around the corner for truly creative people. "It's just one idea, there are thousands waiting to come out. It is endless!"
I dreamt of butterflies made from cut paper. Thousands of them hung from thin threads and hanging down from the ceiling. Each butterfly had one word of a story written on it. The paper was common like scraps of old phone books and newspapers. The words were written and large enough to be visible but not coherent. They were stiffened by gluing layers of other paper and the words were written in black ink. I kept looking up at them and realized they were a story about me that could be put together and read in many ways. The breeze from the sea made them flutter.