The Butterfly lies there, on the sill,
Clearly dead, and motionless—but still
The glow of the bright wings makes me glad.
The perfect turn, of its little head
I still can’t believe that it is dead.
The sight of it there, makes me so sad.
The sight of it there, makes me so sad.

The tiny details of your wings show
The Great Artist’s care in all things, though
It seems cruel, as your beauty does last
Only a short while, and then will fade.
The Artist reclaiming what he made.
Forgotten forever, in the past.

Small butterfly, you were once alive.
On flowers and sunlight, you did thrive.
Safe sheltered, and stuck in your cocoon.
A time of growth, a time to prepare.
A perilous, frightening world out there.
You emerged, unwilling, all too soon.

Happy to flit about, you would sing,
Ebullient for life, with each tiny wing.
Your beauty was not the earth’s to keep.
In two weeks, silence came to your song.
What was eternity was not long.
Over its loss, the earth did not weep.

You as all creatures, one day did die.
But your soul flew away, towards the sky.
Released from the clutches of earth—free
To look down upon the world, and sea
Short fleets of pleasure, though they bring joy
Pass by too fast, as time will destroy,
All life, a forgotten memory.