Finn comes in, hands cupped
and asks me for a jar. What for?
I ask, and he lets me peek between
his palms to see the butterfly.
He is all aglow with the catching of it,
and I do not try to hide my regret.
Let it go, I say, it will be so much happier, love.
No, he shouts, and looks about
for a jar since I won’t help him out.
Please Finn, I say, let it go,
but he is intent on keeping
what is beautiful. He pokes holes
in the lid so the admiral can breathe,
gives it a yellow salsify and insists
that it’s sipping nectar. The butterfly,
all violent wing, flaps a long time before
settling beside the pretty weed.
Finn stares in the jar at his butterfly.
It is pure, his admiration for the
loveliness he sees, so pure that I squeeze him
tight, too tight perhaps, my arms
around the place he would have wings.
