Haze through the Screen

Butterfly through the Screen

The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing
against a white stone

Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly 'way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it wished to
kiss the world goodbye.

For seven weeks I've lived in here,
penned up inside this ghetto
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me
and the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live in here,
In the ghetto.

The Butterfly by Pavel Friedman

I remember the butterfly in my childhood
Often struggles in our web
Or lies flat and dry among leaves of books
Or stands still in box of framed glass

We tend to put beauty
Into its captivity
To possess the good things of the world
In our narrow frame of mind

Often, we forget
How big the world is
And how lovely when
All are free and flying
Like a butterfly

Butterfly in My Childhood by Yu Lan

From cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged--a summer afternoon--
Repairing everywhere,

Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.

Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, the struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,

Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As 't were a tropic show.

And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,

Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.

The Butterfly's Day by Emily Dickinson

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