Those were the days and nights of butterflies,
when the old woman walked the steep, dusty
streets to home, blessed by the embrace of
velvet nights.
She had diamonds in her heart, and
her eyes glowed with the kiss of starlight.
When she passed, there was the soft ring of
bell song, and the whisper of silver sage.

The children were afraid of her,
and called her "bruja", witch.
So the wise ones have always
been called since the days of non.
The children felt the diamonds, but couldn't see them.
They saw the starlight, but couldn't taste it.
They heard the bells, but couldn't touch them.
They smelled the sage, but couldn't remember.
And that which they could not see or taste or touch
or remember, they didn't trust,
and their fears sprouted and grew wings.

And so the days passed.
When the old woman came down to town with
her herbs and flowers, the children spat at her
and called her names. She only smiled, a deep and
secret smile, a quiet smile that ate their pain,
a smile she gifted with starlight and diamonds.

In the market, she sold her herbs and flowers,
herbs to feed the body,
flowers to feed the heart.
Butterflies danced over her stall,
and graced her tiny frame like a jeweled mantilla.
As she greeted her customers,
she brushed butterflies aside with a caress.
Her hands were gnarled and worn,
twisted like the streets of town.
They were lovers' hands and had known great joy.
But the people saw only age and wrinkles
and a face scarred like the earth.
They bought her wares and scurried away.
Of all diseases, fear is the most contagious,
and the hardest to treat.

Occasionally, there were those who saw
the butterflies dancing in the diamond light
of the old woman's healing.
They heard bells in their hearts,
and the whisper of tall grasses and sweet sage
feathering in the wind.
Their days rang with starlight,
and they sang the song of mother earth and father moon.
They were rare,
and their visits slipped away like time,
but it was enough,
and the old woman drank their vision like fine wine,
while shafts of light
carved trails of memory on her face.

One of those who saw, was a small boy
they called Pepe, or "El Tigre", for he was
fierce and wild, and none could gentle him.
El Tigre was a creature of the streets,
nesting at night in a tangle of cardboard at the dump,
prowling the town by day.
He drank stagnant water from the canal,
and begged from the market.
When he had to, he stole.
Survival devours the soul,
and hunger knows no laws.

Often the old woman would see El Tigre watching her.
He would sit crouched, poised for flight,
with a puzzled frown on his face.
Now and then, a fleeting smile
would dance through his eyes, as the
old woman wove her lace of butterfly dreams,
and the boy, too old, too young,
caught glimpses of wings like jewels.

But the other shopkeepers cursed him,
and chased him away, with brooms and sticks.
El Tigre begged for work,
but his feral ways were strange,
and he found it hard to please.
He had been too long from the company of others,
and he didn't trust, nor did they.

His eyes held a strange gleam,
and he smelled of garbage and filth.
Still he came to sit,
and stare with fierce, dark eyes
waiting for a glimpse of magic
in the old woman's stall,
braving the ire of the shopkeepers' wrath.

Pepe did not really understand
his effect on other people,
for he did not see himself
as others saw him.
Pepe could not see El Tigre.
No matter how quickly Pepe looked,
even if he looked
out of the furthest, furthest corner of his eye,
there was no El Tigre.
Only the others saw El Tigre.
When Pepe looked at his reflection in a puddle,
he did not see strangeness or filth,
he saw all the hidden places
deep inside his soul.

He saw soft places
like velvet jewel boxes,
dark and sheltered,
rich and purple.
He saw tender memories
like a cherished fragment of fluting seashell,
or precious bits of polished glass.
And, if the water was really still,
and the birds were really quiet,
he could see to the center of everything,
where he kept the smallest,
most precious box of all,
the one that held warmth and affection,
and dreams of tomorrow,
a box he hadn't opened in many years,
a box, whose key
he'd long ago forgotten.
He saw himself
as only the butterfly lady saw him.

And so it came to be
that the old woman began leaving small gifts
of food and herbs in the corner of the market
where El Tigre came to sit.
She lined the basket
with flecks of starlight and bell song,
and sprinkled butterflies like rose petals.
She gifted him
with the haunting tenderness
known only to those who care for
the fragile things of the world.
She blessed his coming,
and surrounded the basket
with a golden circle
of monarch dreams.

From the street, El Tigre could see the
glimmer of soft wings dipped
in the silver of starlight.
No one else saw the basket but he.
No one else saw the gate
in the golden circle.
No one else but he.
He smelled the earth and the hills,
and memories and vision, and he knew
the basket could only be
from the butterfly lady,
and he named her La Abuela, the grandmother.

Slowly, day by day, the desperate gleam
in El Tigre's eyes quieted.
Butterflies began to nest in his belly,
and swallows in his heart.
El Tigre began to fade,
and traces of Pepe drifted on the wind,
like the fluting coyote calls
of a crystalline saphire dawn.
He felt the strange murmer
of turquoise honey in his blood,
and the warmth of rubies and dreams.

When he walked, there was an odd glow,
like golden champagne, and
the songs of fall.
The shopkeepers shook their heads
and muttered, and fussed nervously with their wares.
La Abuela just thanked mother earth and father moon
and sang her prayers to the stars.

Slowly, thread by gossamer thread,
a silken web of trust began to grow,
a harmony of understanding,
understanding without conquest,
strength without fear,
a web of freedom, not constraint.
Still, neither La Abuela nor El Tigre
bridged the space between them.
That space was sacred.
Butterflies danced there.
There was respect in those few feet,
and patience, and time.
And as trust grew, the old woman saw
the jeweled heart of El Tigre,
and Pepe saw La Abuela's diamond love.
Sadly, all the townspeople saw
was a dirty, wild boy,
and an old woman, bent and gnarled
by the circle of time.

El Tigre began following La Abuela
home from the market,
through the dusty streets of town,
to her tiny house high in the hills.
He saw the children curse and spit at her,
and torment her kindly soul,
while everyone just looked away.
He saw them throw rocks,
scattering butterflies
forlornly on the winds of hate,
and he tasted the bile of rage.

But the walls around his heart
were too thick and scarred,
and he did nothing,
and he felt shame.
La Abuela just smiled,
and tenderly stroked her iridescent cloak
of fluttering rainbows.

Months passed, and the days spun on.
The bonds between El Tigre
and La Abuela grew stronger.
A web grew between them,
an angel's web of butterfly tears.
More, and more, Pepe walked the earth.
One, by one, he opened the soft places
deep inside his soul,
and gifted the web
with the jewels of his heart.
The butterfly web sparkled and shone,
and no matter how far apart
La Abuela and El Tigre were,
the web stretched between them,
a filigree of hope,
weaving the streets of town.

El Tigre began to long for something,
something long-forgotten,
and half-remembered.
His bones ached fire,
and his hunger pulsated
like a keening drum.
Deep inside, he saw the flicker
of warmth and affection,
within its velvet jail,
but the key was gone,
and the box stayed locked.
Restlessly, he stalked
the long silver night,
craving a glimpse of butterfly love.

At dawn,he saw La Abuela making her way to market.
She twinkled as she walked,
and bell song murmered lightly in the morning air.
Light filled her footsteps,
as the earth kissed her feet,
and scattered sweet sage in her path.
As always, the children began following her,
calling and taunting,
throwing pebbles and spitting.
Suddenly, a rock hit La Abuela,
and she started to fall.
Pepe's heart filled like the arroyo in flood,
and he rushed to her side.
The holes in the web sang shut, and
the butterflies rose in a shimmering cloud
surrounding him in the old woman's love.

As he held her precious tiny frame,
he felt his heart tear.
El Tigre exploded and starshine floated down
blanketing the earth like snow.
And as he floated down,
he saw the wall of the children's fear.
For them, there were no butterflies,
or bells, or sage or diamonds,
only locked boxes, and forgotten keys.

He saw inside to their secret, soft places,
the hidden, velvet jewel boxes
each of us holds inside,
safe from the world's peril,
safe from the threat of loss.
He saw, and he understood
La Abuela's secret smile.
He saw the walls of his own fears
crumbling into butterfly dust.
And as the torrent of butterflies
engulfed his soul,
he saw La Abuela's love
for the throwers of rocks,
and the callers of names,
and he embraced them
with his own web of butterfly dreams.

And then, Pepe truly saw.
He saw all the way
to the center of everything,
deep inside to the smallest,
most precious box of all --
and it was open --
and streamers of butterflies
danced on the wind,
singing his dreams to the stars
and the moon.

And Pepe smiled a secret smile
for he had learned
that hate only grows
when you hold fear in your heart,
and fear cannot live
where butterflies nest.