By the blown career of the butterfly
perfection proves immaterial.
By long seasons of slow-motion descent
blossoms falling widen the obvious
open door; rusty hinges can be heard.
By what uncanny proximity
is the threshold always here?
Look for no cities, no computers, no
awesome parade of gadgets passing through.
A humble starling about to show the way
now loses herself in murmuration.
And too deep he has dived, 
the whale believed to speak.