Burying The Butterflies

Silver-spotted Skipper, Epargyreus clarus

Silver-spotted Skipper, Epargyreus clarus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The smoke that accompanies out celebration

Is not without just fire, but crackers,

Up in the sky for a few shimmering seconds,

We thicken the air around us for days.


We can shut our windows,

To the toxicity,

But where will the creatures

Of the open meadows go?


Helplessly attracted to the light,

They try to, and get inside,

Moths and butterflies,

In large numbers, with less number of choices.


Sitting on my swing,

Or books, or easel, or bed,

They are everywhere,

Like a second coat of paint.


But die they will,

And pretty soon,

And we drove them to it,

Shortened their life to half,

In the name of God.


In the morning when I get up,

My floor covered with these

Fallen angels,

With a great sigh and resolve,

I arrange for a mass funeral.


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