Butterfly Catcher

Words are like butterflies.

They twitter and laugh,

they prance and dance,

carefully drawn with

clear, black ink,

floating by in a blue sky

or across a new

fresh blank white paper.

Words soar and fly,

they do not stop

for you or

for the poets.

We run after them,

nets in one hand,

the other clutching our

dear writers' hats,

for the words do not wait,

they glide by,

on vivid bright wings.

Now here is where

the real fun begins.

The novice will chase,

huffing and puffing,

vainly shaking their net

this way and that,

in hopes of catching a word

any word will do,

they desperately say.

Their skirts will fly,

and their coattails will flutter,

in the dust of the butterfly words.

Only the lucky ones will ever catch,

but even then,

it is only a frail, old word,

used and reused,

ready to surrender.

The old-timer,

on the other hand,

will simply stop

and watch the fledgling vainly run,

determined to catch a word.

But in the end they all fall

on the edge of the horizon,

and look back to see,

the old-timer

triumphantly holding

a fat bag dripping black ink,

squirming with delicious,

freshly caught words.

How do they do it?

wonders the novice.

It's simple, really.

All it takes is patience,

for you must wait and wait,

under the hot sun

in a meadow full of poppies,

while the words flutter by.

A sturdy, reliable pen is needed,

preferably adorned with a proud feather,

the weapon of choice

of every good writer.

Next is the writers' hat,

not those new, flimsy baseball caps,

but a leather or straw bonnet,

that whispers croaky advice

in the base of your ear,

full of ancient wrinkles

and a tight brim,

that sits firmly on your head.

A cup of tea, of course,

because time clicks by softly,

and is better spent,

with a gentle breeze

of warm herbs and flowers,

a pinch of sugar

and a sprinkle of salt.

See here, the old-timer,

with a shining feather pen,

a pointed mad hat,

red cup of tea ready,

and a well of infinite patience.

They stand in the meadow,

and wait,

until the words have forgotten,

and fly right back,

dancing on the poppy petals,

shrieking with blissful laughter.

Eyes, half hidden by the droopy old hat,

carefully hunt and look for

the tell-tale,

night black,

straight backed,

zip-pity zap words.

The ones that lead,

the ones new

with a grain of old,

tap-dancing on baby green leaves.

Oh those are the ones

you want to search for.

Then, when the tea is half gone,

and the sun made your shadow

disappear into the clouds,

then and only then,

will the old-timer strike.

Quick as a flash,

the net bolts through the air,

and the words,

caught unaware,

are snatched and seized,

with a mad glee.

The old-timer grins,

watching the panicked words

fly away,

now screaming of fear.

No matter,

for tightly held

in the right-left hand,

is a net filled with

perfect, luscious

winged words.

Now is the time for the pen.

The old-timer quickly grabs it,

checks the sharpness of the nib,

and with a contained smirk,

meticulously taps each word,

watching as their shapes contract and confirm,

till they have become

a bright black ink,

sucked into the pen,

that fattens till it's bursting

with new words.

The old-timer sighs,

readjusts the hat,

and with one last swing,

drains the cup of tea

till all that's left behind,

is a couple of tea leaves,

confused flying wings,

a fat pen

and the promise of words

ready to flow

on a fresh white paper.

Oh, how it easy it seems,

to be a butterfly catcher.

But words, my dear fellows,

are tricksters and pranksters,

so here is the first and only lesson;

never, ever underestimate the power

of one single word.

But go on, run or wait in vain,

net in one hand,

hat in the other,

because the words will just laugh,

and tickle you with their butter soft wings.

Ha.

A butterfly catcher.