Stone

[cidermaid]

Hi,
I see this more as prose writing.
But that is not to say that it is not some material to make it a poem
Rather than offering crit I have highlighted the lines / words that carried some weight of image / meaning for me.

I was drawing at  in the park, and a butterfly with the most intricate and awe-inspiring markings landed on a stone next to me.
A young kid ran up to admire its colorful wings as they intermittently opened and closed in the warm sunlight...
In my mind, I could not have had a greater thirst for knowledge of this creature.
Where did it come from, what kind of cocoon did it weave, how long will it live?
I desperately wanted to know everything about it, to ask these things of it. I needed to. 
As soon as I separated my teeth to begin forming the words, before my lips even opened, the butterfly ascended into flight.
Where was it going? Just another question to add to the writhing mass of string I'd later unwittingly lose an eternity of sleep trying to unravel.
I watched as the butterfly danced away into the park.
The boy ran after, stumbling and weaving through the other people, a look of wonder and admiration on his face.
The butterfly of course, flew off, and the kid then returned to the stone.
Our eyes met for half a second, and without any words, we shared a mutual undying curiosity focused on this insect we had both just encountered.
He turned his gaze to the spot on the stone where the butterfly had landed earlier, and his eyes didn't leave the spot where it had been.
The boy was sizing up the stone, I couldn't believe it.
He mustered all of his strength, and though he was struggling to carry this relative boulder back to his mother, or whoever, goddamnit, he was carrying it. Surely this wasn't a keepsake, he didn't want to keep such a huge, heavy stone just to remember the butterfly by, did he?


That's when it struck me.
The butterfly very well could have been the most beautiful thing he'd seen in the few years he'd been alive, and he wanted to remember that.
What a familiar feeling.



I posted this in the mild criticism thread, because that's the skill level I think it's on.  Have at it with criticism, though, I'd like to know what you all would do differently!  I don't even know if it's a real poem, hah.