WHEN YOU COME
to the warm south wall
of her mother's house
look for her tall bent beauty
among the garden flowers.

You’ll know her - 
soft as butterfly upon the waters -
then look away from her and murmur
"You are beautiful"

and move on.

Though she'll not look up,
still she may hear. Or hear
or not, do no more.
For wings heal not by being cupped or clasped.

Do this, you only bruise the butterfly the more.

I know.  I who,

like a great dane playful
among goslings,
could only tromp
and mangle.

- public domain -