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The White Butterfly

That February day imitated my weeping.  

As Tears mingled

 with a soft and steady Rain

then rolled  gently across my cheeks, 

the Tears and Raindrops splashed to my feet.. 

I looked to Heaven, seeking your Face,

I made a plea for God's Sweet Grace. 

There, on that wet winter day of loss,

riding the pain of a broken heart, 

is where I met the White Butterfly.

Gently, slowly it  fluttered  by

I held my breath and watched

 in wonder

as it hovered close enough 

for me to Touch.

Then -


My Butterfly  floated,

 delicately on a cold, damp breeze. 

In my longing to see You 

just once more,

 I wondered,

Are you there, is it You?  . 

Then I knew..

The  White Butterfly was 

God's Grace

Showing me,

 not your face,

But your 

Eternal soul.

By V. Clark

Copyright 2005



poets against the war

The French garden poet Ecouchard Le Brun aptly noted, "The butterfly is a flying flower, the flower a tethered butterfly."


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