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.