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once upon a time
a butterfly loved a ram who loved
to wear the yoke of the ox.

his horns curled around it
grew into the wood.
endearingly he called it home.
the yoke was a good yoke. it kept him
anchored away from the places he once
leapt. now that he was older he feard
the fall he'd taken once or twice. banged
head, torn muscles. the yoke
was a good yoke.
he forgot how to climb the mountains
he'd loved in his youth so he didn't
regret spending his time plowing
peasanty fields. once in a while
he'd try to lift his head,
when the breeze blew by
a piece of lint or the scent
of impatiens. the smell & movement
reminded him of patterns
on wings, dappled with light
like the shade
under the oak at lunch.

some days
the butterfly approached the ram.
circling his horns telling the story
of wild rye, in a meadow
over the mountain beyond the fields
he plowed. look up, look up she'd sing
but the yoke kept his head straight and
pointed to his work. on those days,
the yoke didn't feel like home. the ram
didn't like that feeling. he wanted his
manger, the wood slats for the roof, grain
in the trough. it filled his belly. kept him
warm when darkness was his only company.

but he loved the butterfly's
stories. he loved the way her voice
carried the smell of wild winds and gaps
between rocks, tasted sweet pine
saplings that grew in high places where
the yoke of blue sky was his only limit.
he loved the way she shimmied along the row
ahead of him, the company of her colors.
ah, i wish i could fly like you he'd say
when the row had been particularly long,
the stones he unearthed particularly heavy.

he wished he could remember what it was
he forgot. something about the lightness
of faith in his legs and the boulders
at the edge of cliffs.

butterfly remembered a story passed
from caterpillar to chrysalis. her silk
strings sang this lullabye as they tucked
her to sleep? when you wake, you'll have
the magic of flight in the dust on your
wings. she could no longer spin silk, her tongue
was too hollow. but she could dance
a shivaree over the ram's head. she tilted
and whirled and vibrated till she spun
fast as summer. dust fell off in jeweled
colors, over the head of the ram. he
tasted it and twitched, a film on his eyes
like joyful tears. the mountain appeared
for a moment. he shook his head in
disbelief so the mountain vanished.
the dust had fallen to the ground. i think i
need some more of that he asked the
butterfly. so she danced into tornado, she
danced into hurricane, she shivered
and shook her storm on top him. colors
rained into his eyes, the smell of leap
ran over his lips, he licked them..
oh my! he exclaimed , look, i think
i've swallowed a field of butterflies! he felt
so light he leapt. from one end of the plow
to the other.

when he sobered some, he
wondered why he couldnt hear her song
anymore. he walked carefully around
the plow, under the tree, across the field
looking for her vibrant wings. something
colorless fluttered beside a broken off piece
of yoke. he approached the objects, he mourned.
nuzzled transparent wings. the butterfly
had danced so hard to grant him flight,
she'd shaken all the dust
from her wings. she was too worn
to sing, but lifted her anthers ,
tickled his cold nose. he sneezed
and some dust came swirling
off his head and landed on her wings. she
giggled. stuck out her tongue and sucked
wet dust from his varicolored nose.
he sneezed again, more dust fell
on her. she gained some strength in her
legs and climbed past his nose, rested on
his horns.

now be still, said the ram. i'm
going to take us to the manger for
the night.

she crawled inside his ear and sang
i wont make it to the manger
i won't make it thru the night
the colors that will make me fly
are in the field of rye.

the ram thought about the heights
of the boulders at the mountain top.
he'd made the journey many times
as a youth, but not at all since
he'd taken the yoke. he feared
so much now: cliffs, falling, sweetness,
youth. the leap over the plow
was close to him, the way his ankles
felt strong, the cleft in his foot like
the hinge between wings. he aimed
for the gate where a strong post, spruce, and green
held it open and began to run.