With your nerves stretched paper thin,
you tend to lose control.
When you are down- -no chance to win,
and feel need to sell your soul.
Finding your back against the wall;
no dreams, no tricks of fate.
No harvest waits to gather in the fall.
A butterfly morning breaks.
I’ll not blame the poor days on fate,
nor give up on life too soon.
While butterflies flit I linger late
on a wildflower afternoon.