There appeared on the cold winter road a butterfly,
Which came to rest on my cane.
The cane, feeling her weight, sprouted leaves,
And the butterfly closed and opened her wings.
Now, I have seen many strange things on the road,
But never this! — only to discover my cane
Had put down roots. Grateful, yet cold, and amazed,
I pushed down upon the curved handle,
To steady myself and press on . . .
Only to find, the road was gone!
I was alone in the snow!
I was old! And peace descended on my soul.
And my soul was an old shoe
From a chance-forgotten, half-remembered
Where to go?
Where more beautiful than this world?