Butterfly
Butterflies have always delighted me, near or far!
As a child I hunted them and caught them,
Put them into a killing jar,
Then crucified them upon a drying board.
Their precious bodies I carefully stored
And looked upon them continually.
I sought out collections of bodies to adore,
And in my mind’s eye, saw lush tropical forests.
With age, both mind and body turned.
The life, not the body of the butterfly was seen.
When I thought of the past regret returned,
The cruelty of childhood repented.
Poems are like the dried remains of thought.
True, they reveal the forest of another’s life,
But they are stored now in dry books, caught!
A museum of our life.
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