on our walk through the knee deep waves

of grasses - seeds all feathers and spears and 

tiny baubles like the art projects of fairies – a

dead butterfly was slung before me

fallen in grace, veined wings splayed

across a swooping stem,  legs mid-pedal

and eyes still grazing the hovering blue

such delicacy crossing my path seemed enormous 

in its meaning  – its future defined on some 

leaf by a smattering of tiny eggs like the way

we have read the stars – humanity’s understanding

of the distant white braille in our sky.  and then 

I returned home to learn that that small life had a 

two percent chance against spiders and other 

predation.  that morsel of breezy colour 

emerged from a soupy chrysalis  all scaled

to reflect the sun and catch the eye of a suitor.  

to dance like beauty is its main event

and to die there upside down in unspoiled repose.

and then that I walked that way and found it 

there - a gift handed to me by the grey 

ticklish clouds of a hooded summer morning.

17 thoughts on “Chance

  1. So much sweet symmetry in this one, Worms. The egg constellations and the butterfly. I like how you contemplate its purpose, and the point of it all, but the ‘hooded summer morning’ is my favorite image. Can butterflies reinvent their purposes? Can any of us? Cheers.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. by sheer chance, one of my favourite podcasters had interviewed an Entomologist and when I got home I cleaned the oven and learned all about butterflies. According to this expert, butterflies have short and focused lives. I would fail as a butterfly – get distracted by a pretty flower and forget to breed. 😀

      Liked by 1 person

  2. This sent my head roiling into a spin about chances. What are the chances that you’d walk in the direction of that butterfly, the chances of life, short or long, well-spent or mis-spent. Sometimes the concept of chance can entrap a person. This is a brilliant, multilayered poem.

    Liked by 1 person

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