Fly

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I watched a battered Tiger Swallowtail fly awkwardly from flower to flower, clinging precariously from its remaining feet, its tails cracked and broken.  How sad, I thought, that this usually stunning butterfly has lost its beauty.  Only later did it occur to me that the swallowtail had lost nothing of real beauty.  It lived on, though battered by storms, by would-be predators.  What it had lost in glamour it had gained in strength and nobility.  And it still commanded the air.  It still indulged in the sweetness of life.  This poem celebrates the swallowtail.

FLY

Today you limp
on air:
wings faded,
edges serrated,
tails broken off.
Still, flowers
beckon
you to push awkwardly on,
to cling with three barbed feet.
Uncurl your coil
to taste the sweetness
of the flowers
today.

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2 thoughts on “Fly

  1. Jeanette

    As human beings we are the same as the butterflies you describe. We are all of us battered and bruised, yet we square our shoulders and seek for nourishment, betterment, growth. It is not in us to stop flying even when every spiritual muscle shudders with weariness. We continually spread our wings and venture forward again. It is not foolishness; it is divine purpose and an inner power, and faith that something better is ahead. I personally attempt to embrace the tatters and scars on my wings. They are evidence that I am unconquerable if I but choose every day to open my wings anew.

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