Butterfly
Butterfly
Swarmed power swept by a fierce tail-windhigh over chimneys, in flight
from poison-fume
smoke-gloom
that pinned
to starving death
these beings winged with light
who now break free and whirl above the earth
A miracle was present in their making:
egg, furry crawling larva, sheath.
When were they birthed?
Or we?
To not-be
pulped catafly
pent inside a chrysalis, breaking
out with damp and scarcely-quivering wings
We look for them in summer, never dreaming
these gleaming peacock-flies, so light-
weight, so frail
could sail
at such a height
nine thousand miles, with rests
to feed, breed; each generation streaming
closer towards home, towards their own land-nest