Two women,     

One elder,

One still in youth’s blossom.

Two women,

Walking,

Laughing,

Chatting,

Enjoying the azure skies,

The playful ocean breeze,

The California sun,

For once, in a kindly temperament.

Who noticed it first?

The knowing eyes of the elder,

The restless glance of the younger?

Alas, such details matter not,

For, in a moment,

Both countenances were struck with sorrow,

Horror,

As they beheld it --

Expressions that deepened in sorrow,

Showed revulsion,

Rage at fate’s cruelty,

As they gathered round it,

Gently nudged it,

And saw that the beautiful butterfly was dead --

Stuck to the driveway’s center with

The whitish fluid of its own life.

“Hemolymph,” it is called.

The blood of a butterfly.

A poor creature likely crushed to death by a pitiless vehicle,

Yet retaining her pristine beauty.

Pale orange wings,

Outlined in dazzling kohl,

Perfectly shaped

By the flawless hands of her Creator.

Cautiously does the elder detach the small ebony body,

The delicate wings,

From the unnatural,

Awful,

Twisted face of the butterfly’s

Cement deathbed.

Tenderly does the younger cup the tiny corpse in her calloused hands,

Carries her treasure to the nearby bushes,

Gently places the butterfly in her early grave,

The heavenly greenery,

Where the butterfly perched as if in life,

Surrounded by mourners’ flowers --

Where she might have died a natural death.

Sadly do small hands make the sign of the cross --

To bless and protect the fragile corpse

Who died so gruesomely --

Upon their living bodies.

The funeral rites completed,

The women depart,

Both aged by the sight they had witnessed,

But only the younger gazed over her shoulder,

Her heart and mind buried among the graveyard bushes,

Desiring to join the butterfly in sweet oblivion,

Yet terrified of this ominous portent,

So the young girl remembers

As she perches upon the creaking, wooden railing,

Gazing out over waters of darkness,

Her golden hair flowing behind her in the harsh ocean wind,

Her dark skirts billowing around her small legs.

A shout, “Hey girl!”
She jumps,

Spreads her pale arms

Like wings to catch the wind.

But the wind shows her no mercy --

She plunges into the icy waves,

Which reach to grab her,

swallow her.

Two women,     

One elder,

One still in youth’s blossom.

Two women,

Walking,

Laughing,

Chatting,

Enjoying the warm sand,,

The playful ocean breeze,

The white seafoam,

Lapping gently on their feet.

Who noticed it first?

The knowing eyes of the elder,

The restless glance of the younger?

Alas, such details matter not,

For, in a moment,

Both countenances were struck with sorrow,

Horror,

As they beheld it --

Expressions that deepened in sorrow,

Showed revulsion,

Rage at fate’s cruelty.

As they gathered round her,

Gently nudged her,

And saw that the beautiful girl was dead --

Her ivory body bloated with water,

Arms outstretched on the sand,

Grasping for life,

For flight.