As the ice in my hand gently thaws,
my butterfly’s go and fly better having gone, and yet, I haven’t even begun.
I’ll climb the mountains, I’ll wade in and along with the streams.
I am forever magnified in there waters like a vibrant bug in a glass jar.
But do I think hard? Do I? Do I think?
The answer is yes, for too long. So long that it’s no longer thinking at all.
How I can waste time so easily in haste.
Now, lesser do I wish to think, for i am with beauty and in dream.