Vigil and a revision

First the poem, then my comments, then, hopefully, your comments.

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Vigil
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Inside the edge of the forest
and surrounded by an abandoned path,
I watched a orange butterfly drift
from dandelion to yellow dandelion,
chasing the cotton-like seeds.

The path was a garden of lost flowers
encircling me. Home was through the trees,
out of earshot. Yet I thought I heard
melodies in the distance, and the laughter
of wandering children.

So many movements escape me.

For this reason, I traced with my eyes
the butterfly’s patient dance
an inward spiral, closer to me.
Flies, squirrels, and birds
appeared wherever I turned.

Yet the children never came near
this precarious place. I left this glade
alone, tired, dizzy.
A new road led beyond,
towards a growing silence.

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I wrote this poem while actually on vigilance duty at the camp I'm working at. Now, poetry is as much fiction as any other form, so what's written here isn't necessarily what happened. I just tried to take certain parts of my experience and see if I could capture the feeling of being on the lookout for something that never comes. I'm not sure if I did that great of a job of it though. I don't know; this just doesn't feel like one of my better poems so I'm very open to suggestions: lines you liked, liked you didn't like, lines that didn't help the poem at all, themes or images you wish I'd have explored more. Whatever.

Anyway, I'm also posting a revision of an older poem (Posted April 30th) as well, one that I think has turned out pretty well. Enjoy!

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For The Hands That Hold Us High
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Tonight I want to say something gentle

like we are the blankets of suckling babes,
swaddling them as we entangle ourselves

because I recall my father,
the nights he tucked me in
with hand-woven stories.

and my mother,
the mornings she rose before the sun
to set a place for me.

Tonight I imagine the fatigue that weighs on them
is my world, kept warm by their hands,
held high above their bowing heads,

shaped like bent bonsais
tendered by the sturdy fingers
of past angels.

Tiniest branches,
spread out like wings,
become the prayers I raise.

They gave me shade and feathers to rest my head.
Though I was restless and a light sleeper,

tonight I am wrapped in dreams to carry worlds.