The Butterfly
A caterpillar crawls
Down the side of a leaf
That wilts under her weight
She drops playfully
To a branch below
And dangles off the edge.
In contortionist moves
She weaves a silken hammock
And leans back. writhing.
In pain, seemingly,
And her once vibrant green
Is relinquished.
The caterpillar falls to the floor.
The writhing stops.
And eons pass as days.
Six still sunsets later
A silken shape splits, and she is born.
The sky sees her beauty
In painted aqua hues,
And screams in pain,
In jealousy of her blue.
And so it carries out
One thing only it can do,
And sends torrents of rain
To the insect born anew.
And she flaps her silken wings
And the weather begins to pursue
Its newfound silky bane
The butterfly's wings accrue
Wet beads. And she begins to flap frantically
Flying, flopping, as each drop lands
On her failing wings. Crumpling, under
All the rain, sent by a jealous sky
She falls into a puddle on dying grass,
And the sky’s tears absorb her failing cobalt wings.