A
butterfly
flutters
by,
what
does
she
see?
What
does
she
think?
Perhaps
she
sees
the
glorious
growing
mass
in
the
park.
There
is
a
tree,
sap
flowing
slowly,
up
to
a
shady
canopy.
Here
is
a
daisy,
smiling
at
the
sun,
wearing
her
perfume.
There
is
a
rose,
standing
stately,
sheltering
small
creatures.
Here
is
the
jasmine,
white
and
chaotic,
declaring
the
arrival
of
spring
Or
perhaps
our
butterfly
is
more
burdened
by
life.
She
stares
into
the
sky
seeking
her
doom,
swift
death
on
feathered
wings.
She
beats
her
wings
bearing
her
weight,
each
stroke
a
wearisome
flap.
Or
perhaps
she
plays
with
the
wind.
Riding
the
faithful
draft,
Laughing
with
the
capricious
gust,
Resting
in
the
soothing
breeze.
Alighting
in
the,
timely
lull.
Or
perhaps
our
butterfly
looks
out
and
considers
us.
We
flit
from
table
to
door,
and
dash
to
some
mysterious
call.
Or
we
plod
under
some
unseen
load,
weeping
and
speaking
in
a
quite
mode.
Or
we
dance
to
some
unknown
tune,
our
movements
the
weaving
of
a
mysterious
loom.
What
are
these
fluttering
creatures?
What
beauty
moves
them?
What
burden
weighs
them?
Is
it
the
winds
of
joy
that
drive
them?
Who
can
know?
Surely
not
out
butterfly.