family, life, poetry, thoughts, Uncategorized

Crumbled Bits of a Butterfly’s Wing

When I was a girl I saw

My grandmother’s large round glass

Like a brandy glass

Full of seashells

From her and my grandfather’s travels by the ocean and sea

Next to a small bottle of sand

That my grandfather had

And there was a butterfly

The king of butterflies

Monarch

Inside the glass, on top

Of the shells

Stiff and timeless

Dead and lifeless

Beautiful with or without movement

Though it was old

And when I touched it, it was delicate

To the point of glass-like fragility

Or maybe past the point of glass-like delicacy

So that once it was past that point

Its wing crumbled a little

Maybe

Because it was touched too much?

Or because it was just the natural thing

To happen

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