The Butterfly

The butterfly, whose time is brief,
Still manages to spread her wings
And catch the warmth that daylight brings.

A softly aging autumn leaf,
Her wing strokes lift her up and down
Before she settles to the ground.

Sometimes a pair of them will fly
In urgent spirals side by side
And yet somehow they don't collide.

Their presence lends the summer sky
A surge of joy, a bright display
Of beauty that is freed to play.

A living proof, if prove you must,
A witness you can surely trust,
The butterfly has left behind
Her past life for a better kind.

©2016 Michael Fraley

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