I can't explain it. I don't know if an actual butterfly is being talked about or if it's a metaphor for something I'm too dumb to understand, but whatever the subject of this piece is, I feel awful for it.
It is a terrible thing to catch a butterfly With a net A horrid, heavy net The sort that children wave around, Trolling streams for tadpoles The sort that collectors use, sorcerous wands Casting ensnaring enchantments A net that folds itself around her wings So that every thrashing beat makes her heart race As soon as you’ve caught her Your let her go again out of pity for her distress Or else with darker purpose Starve and to suffocate until, just before the last, Spread wide her limbs and pin her under glass And hang her beneath all your other trophies.
But I remember One summer’s afternoon When in the woods I was reading a book beside an ashen fire A butterfly came, brushed my nose with her wings, then Lit upon my shoulder And when wondering I turned to look She flit and flew and removed herself to my shoe. There she stayed for the better part of an hour, keeping me company while I read. I think I could have sat with her Under the golden sunlight and breeze-tossed emerald shadows Happy forever