To All The Wingless Butterflies

To all the wingless butterflies
forgive those who could not see
your beauty, who ripped your wings
away mid-flight for no good reason,
who failed to understand the simple ways
of your flitting course, effervescently
reminding them of lightheartedness;
release the worries of your fragile life,
brief and beautiful as the sun’s ascension,
soft as flowers unfolding in spring’s grass
until they fully bloom gentle as
the midnight moon’s glow against the backdrop
of space and every radiant star shining
for immeasurable lightyears from its essence;
forget the former days of transformation,
when your cocoon served to protect you
from one stage of development to the next,
when the security of your stillness
was preparing you for unimaginable freedom,
and forget how small you felt
before you discovered your wings —

ascending higher than the flowers,
descending lower than the soil —

To all the wingless butterflies:
even if others say they won’t,
your wings will grow again,
and if they don’t,
then you will grow into something more beautiful.