Butterflies are cliche

I sit here at a loss for words. This is my first post as a single woman. A single woman again. I rejoice and mourn. How do I speak gracefully and articulately when I know what great magnitude my life has played in the lives of all that I have come in contact with and those who I bear all responsibility for?

So here I am. I won't pretend to be articulate or self-righteous. I'm just me, trying to create a new life. It is beautiful and tragic. I cannot find the words to describe the depths of despair or the loss of hope that has bruised me, so I will not. I feel as though I have found wings and they can be exquisite if I can learn to fly. . Here is a piece of a poem by Robert Frost that I relate to:

My Butterfly

The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;

Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago--
It seems forever--
Since first I saw thee glance,
With all the dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.

When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.
Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.

And there were other things:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Snatched thee, o'er eager, with ungentle grasp.

Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life--
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand!

Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!

by Robert Frost