WHY BUTTERFLIES ARE

--a parable



In the great open gardens

of Chiang Tao-Lin,

between the deep-rooting fox-tail trees,

under the crags,

by the water-filled rocks,

lived two creatures,

black as night seas.



And perched on an old,

swinging chair of cane wicker,

sat the ancient man,

Chiang Tao-Lin,

cross-legged, rocking,

smiling and smoking,

and slowly stroking

his long-bearded chin.



From tight-squinted eyes

he perused his small subjects,

long-legged spider,

fat, wooly worm.



"Of all my dear creatures,

winged and tailed,

legged and finned,

colored or paled,

you are the greatest challenge to me."



"I've painted the rest

with my delicate brush,

bright hues from all palettes,

yellows through reds.

From flourishing tails

and yellow-clawed toes,

to bright plumes of gold

that rest on their heads."



And you two remain,

my spider, my worm,

my brilliant web-spinner,

and you!  How you squirm!"

And Chiang Tao-Lin,

having used all his colors

from his palette so grand and so deep,

baffled, confused,

closed his eyes

and drifted off to sleep.



In the grand, sweeping gardens

of Chiang Tao-Lin,

between the deep-rooting fox-tail trees,

under the stars,

by the floating lamp-light,

the contest ensued

until late in the night.



"I deserve the most brilliant of colors.",

Said spider to wooly-worm,

"I warrant the love and the worship,

every hue on the Earth do I earn."



"I span the skies with my brilliant webs,

whilst on the soils do you squirm,

munching bitter old roots

and leaves whenever it suits,

the decision should have been firm!"



"I artfully stretch out my fine canvasses,

from branches of tree to tree,

what better a way to complete my fine works,

than with a more brilliant me!"



And then boastful spider fell on the worm,

wrapping it tightly

in silver lace,

and hid her away where she couldn't squirm

on her ghostly web,

tightly in place.



Still perched on his old,

swinging chair of cane wicker,

Chiang Tao-Lin,

cross-legged and quiet,

awakened from slumber,

peered from tight eyes,

and watched the eight-legged riot.



He stretched out his legs,

relit his pipe,

and smiled at the scene down below.

Slipping down from the wicker,

he crept to his palette,

so as not to disturb the small row. . . . .



In the lush vibrant gardens

of Chiang Tao-Lin,

between the deep-rooting fox-tail trees,

spider awakened,

stretched out her long legs,

and grinned in the fresh, evening breeze.



He belly it rumbled

from all of her work,

so she sauntered to her cocooned feast.

But lo and behold!

The shell it was empty,

torn at both ends, why at least!



And from over her head

came a whispering flutter;

 spider arose and looked up.

Above her wide eyes,

the most beautiful sight,

perched on a huge buttercup!



And from the old, swinging,

chair of cane wicker,

came the soft voice of ancient Tao-Lin,

his old face was softened

in yellow lamp-light flicker,

to spider, he quietly whispered:



"From the palette I own,

all sweet colors you lack,

the one for your soul,

shall always be

black."

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