it was true,
a butterfly could do little damage,
at least, physically speaking.
but pancakes could absolutely read someone for filth, if asked.

but instead she sees this child smile at her,
as if she was worth smiling at with such gentleness.

and soon, the flash of red, the bright flame upon his dark furs!
a bullet in the night, and it delighted her all the same!

so she flutters closer, closer,
even if afraid he could bite her, or worse.
for life was worth living, even when it could be cut short so quickly.
that was what held its meaning, its worth-- all within fragility.

"Dewdrops and the morning sun," despite it already being noon

"Weave your garments fair and bright, and I welcome you today"
as she welcomed that feather, hovering, wings soft
and heard perhaps in childlike wonder.

"As the child of the light.
Child of the earth and sun."

surely, rock and flame; colliding like the lava
she's heard from the other butterflies, in lands far away,
as she aims for a landing zone, not on that precious feather,
but rather near his own dark crown, if he'd grace her with such pleasantries

curious to know of the taste of his little life so far,
the wonders he has seen and known.
"you're everything," she finally whispers to him