A butterfly does not lament
over cocoon lost nor larval days spent
crawling over green grass and dirt
else dangling breezily by thread to search
for nothing more than to pass the time
to breath the air, or else to dine.
But instead wonders ‘round the natal perch
and wastes no time for that nervous first
flight into the afterlife, whereby the taste of freedom
washes away all thoughts of those laborious days
crawling hungry inch by inch,
the pain of birth by bursting skin,
the dark and lonely days inside,
that let her to this stage of life.
And yet butterflies can not prevent
this almighty natural sequence,
and so surrender comes as their defense.
How unlike humans in that sense,
who fight against change at every stance,
who equate change with death
and decidedly so are born just once.