Butterflies get distracted by TheCity

And begin to thrive on insecurity and pollution.

They gather at the soup-kitchen flowerbeds 

That Charity's Wife, or someone else,

Has graciously planted for them.

Their antennae twitch self-deprecating thoughts.

Each one claims to have it so much worse.

Meanwhile, in the country,

Butterflies flutter the lowlands,

Milking weeds, bluebonnets and gallardia

Of wild pollen and stinging nettle nectar.

Without a word they ford the winds,

Determinedly toward their destination.

They head south, traversing nations, borders,

And no walls or fences,

No armies, nor economies can stop them.

But whether they feed on beggars crumbs

Or wild independence,

Butterflies fly on insecure wings.

But somehow,

They make it,

And so will I.

-jenn