I found a butterfly's wing today
just one piece of it
And wondered how the butterfly could possibly fly
I held the tiny torn wing in my hand
And searched for the butterfly
The piece of wing in my hand moved
I looked twice,
It was just a cold wind lifting the butterfly's wing in my palm
Though it was the wind,
I believe the piece of wing, the color of a rising sun and the darkest night,
still yearns to fly
I thought of how the butterfly must have been hurt,
Like pieces of us,
That those pieces still cry
Yet yearn to fly.
I thought of who or what must have hurt the butterfly
And caused its wing to tear.
I remembered who hurt me,
Yet I still yearn to fly
I thought of who or what I may have hurt
And caused their wing to tear.
Yet still, without half their wing
They yearn to fly.
I held the tiny piece in my hands -
The cold wind still lifting it above my shivering palms.
Does the tiny piece I hold in my hands still consider itself a wing
still yearning to rejoin its whole self?
I did not realize I shed a tear
Until my tear fell upon the tiny wing.
The wind stopped.
The butterfly wing fell against my skin.
I held the piece of butterfly wing to my heart and looked at the grey sky.
I saw the butterfly, the colors of a rising sun and darkest night,
without its one piece of wing,
Fly