This butterfly has so many dreams: a sad little boy
who yearns to be a man, to dance, to fly, to jump
a rope. Tether dreams together to connect to his inner caterpillar
who crawling, inching, nibbling fallen leaves, is potential.
And tears are wings like rain is life and on a winding forest road
the cocoon falls away unseen and a monarch floats
like a fantasy. The sun shines on slick patches of autumn
and kings take flight when clouds fall apart.
And we can jump for joy when the wind carries us and rolls
beneath our fragile wings. It lifts us up to dream and we scream
and we choke down tears to seem strong. We rage to live.
Yet, when we close our eyes we flutter, we flow, we flower.
Butterflies don’t swallow their dreams, they fly them.
They let them rip like predictions and find securities
from the future. With painted eyes and angel wings
these monarchs rule with delicate, transformative flaps.
A butterfly dreams of babies smiling
because they feel safe; laughing because they are loved;
A butterfly dreams of a baby’s tears: crying to be moved,
to be respected, held in the light. Babies are hungry for strength.
When we love, we stretch to reach our chubby arms
out from our cocoons not only to be seen
by ourselves, but also to be seen by the darkness;
to open the drawer that was locked.
A butterfly floats on an opening, takes pains
to be beautiful and, if a baby can be a man,
he must learn to listen for the strength of a tornado
that comes flying from a butterfly’s dreams.