I’m looking for the beauty that lives in the pinpricks: 
a single red spot that fills my fingerprints 
with rivulets, or the rivulets of oil that run
in rainbow corrosion into the drain—
my father told me I was growing up
the day I first watched a butterfly flutter
across my field of vision in fits and starts, 
pulling my eyes away from the ocean 
and into its orbit, a moment I’ve followed 
to bluebells and rivers, into the constellations, 
and finally, into this moment, 
the one where I am trying to tell you what it is 
I am seeing when I see the shine in your eyes.

By Heidi Turner