In the summer’s night
under candle light
she looked so small
but she asked for help
so we gave it:
she asked for a word
and someone said “butterflies”
and she smiled softly
and spun from there
a story so swift and sweet
and elegant and elastic
as one could be
in words and melody
on a Monday night
so surrounded by heathens
under candle light
in the summer’s night.

Nothing short of perfection
escaped her lips
and maybe it would have been disappointing
to discover that the someone who said “butterflies”
was a plant
or that the candles were unnecessary,
that electricity was indeed available
or that open mics like this happened all the time,
were available weekly
for the consumption for anyone who wished
and acts like this did this sort of thing all the time
every season
at the drop of the hat.

Maybe disappointment was available
but not if you ate the magic in the moment whole
and took it all in
and just
watched
the
butterflies.