Who Knew

You study your face
to remember yourself, find
your shape. The glass brims
with butterflies: one, two, then
more, silently fluttering.

Soon you forget what
you sought: the vision itself
displacing the search,
your dancing head alive, the
inside out for all to see.

Your thoughts fly free like
petals halved on mute hinges,
wafting the air for fun. How
many palms in the mirror
applauding existence now?

Ten, twenty, thirty,
forty they swarm and blacken,
your face a gorgeous
commotion. Who knew that we
held such wonder within us?