The butterfly

My hands are warm to the butterfly
I am trying to set free.
Delicate, frail creature of beauty,
what can it know of me?
I am outside its comprehension.
It knows of sunshine and showers,
darkness and the feel of flowers.
We do not ask it do to the impossible
and know Man.

So we, with God,
who looks with tenderness upon our frailty,
trying to guide us.
Trust him!
He knows the way, and, if we let him,
will open windows,
and, cradling us gently in hands we cannot comprehend.
will lift us up and set us free.

-Margaret Orford

Poetry is a balm for me, I have found it bridging the gap I feel between me and God so many times when I am feeling particularly numb to all that is good. I found this poem yesterday, which was pretty much a bad day with me groping to figure out what, really, is my problem, or if I have any problem at all- maybe I am right where the Lord wants me and it has to be hard- ? Or am I making it worse for myself?

Today, at least this afternoon, was like the crisp clear air catching sunshine after the downpoar.