Butterfly
Constantly changing direction,
a living yellow leaf with a mind of its own
albeit a small one, never made up,
always about to alight
on a leaf, on a bud, on a stem,
here, then there,
on wings too big to be subtle
she’s off again, not knowing where,
as if she can’t decide.
Perhaps having been so recently
a worm, she’s afraid to place her feet
on any solid ground again,
like a brand new angel.
