A poem by Julia R. DeStefano
It is a strange place, this doll house
where the ping-pong ball of silence
ricochets from wall-to-wall.
I am the girl full of talk,
screaming at an unknown entity
to “listen, listen!” on a summer evening.
But the rooms are like people.
Neither can be coaxed to hear or speak.
There is a boy wrapped around my heart.
Nestled in the hope that grows there like ivy
where debris and fear had long resided.
He takes a machete to the overgrowth of silence
to unearth the butterflies cocooned within me,
and count them.
Putting a name to each one
with the feather-light touch of his fingertip.
An explorer with notepad and pen
to dive into my exotic pinks and impassioned reds
as the choir of butterflies applaud this delicate dance
of movement and knowledge.
He knows I am an endangered species.
My steps solid like a monument built to last.
Taking me from stone to woman
as we comfort each other in a cocoon of our own
because we are the flowering aces
in a wild card world.
Teaching each other to believe again
as butterflies metamorphosize.
“This is the key to everything.”
Their words, not mine.
© Julia R. DeStefano