no one wonders if the butterfly feels frumpy
stumbling out of bed too soon, needing
sleep, caffeine, an eye lift, an ass less lumpy,
overwhelmed by all the gardens wanting weeding.
no one thinks about how insects might resist
the bright, electric sun as vicious spotlight,
revealing wrinkles, worry - that whole list.
what keeps the butterfly up at night?
surely things that fly feel down, those days
when it's too much to show the real face
hiding somewhere underneath - the greys,
the not quite-there's one tries so hard to erase.
and yet, no matter what the mood dictates,
the butterfly alights on vibrant wings.
Even feeling off, it never hesitates
to be this visible. He knows how color sings.
Amid a greying day, he refuses to be duller -
with yellow making claim against a darkened sky.
"Just look around at all this color,"
he boasts into the air. A righteous butterfly,
sometimes, but still, he makes the whole world his
by knowing just how beautiful his small part is.