Butterflies
Wispy willows writhing in the breeze
Standing firm yet flowing
Knowing their place with grace
Are we meant to be uprooted and planted elsewhere?
Do dreams that die turn into butterflies?
What is a table without legs?
A flower without its stem?
Melting into time, the mind unwinds
And reveals its deepest wishes.
Things easier accomplished if earlier attention was given.
We push on through the grind of bones
And thrown woes attached like chains.
Breaking free may never be
