Butterfly I

Silk-blue water is a fallacy.
The eye sees a beating kaleidoscopic
of rushing greens, clears, yellows, and purples.
The mouth calls it blue, paints
it a shade of Crayola convenience.
The Nalgene with day-old water, the running faucet
my kitten swats the same way he does a spider.

The trick to truth is to separate mouth from
what feeds me. A butterfly flits by, I jerk
my head. Instinct is to catch it,
though I never do. I might just be satisfied
watching. My mouth says, desperate,
“It’s flying away”.

If 66% of me is water and 100%,
stardust, how did I assemble like this?
My composition no correlation to
my colour, just how long the skin
of my ancestors burned.

Why do you call me too soft, have you
seen my blue?