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


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


Because it was touched too much?

Or because it was just the natural thing

To happen


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s