When even the butterflies...

When even the butterflies misjudge
and fly into the cliffs
dazzled by the sharp noon light
how then can we avoid
confusing ourselves
with the shadow of the great wings
that now and then brush the landscape
and make even the cicadas fall silent?

In the shape of a petrified mantis
I'm sitting somewhere inside the stone
I've beaten my head to pieces against
and I'm waiting for the chisel that'll set me free.

Copyright © 2003 Henrik Nordbrandt & Robin Fulton All rights reserved
from My Life, My Dream
Dedalus Press / Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission