Penultimate Sky
What is life?
but a clutching for dear life
to a cotton ball dipped in sweet nectar
a wounded butterfly grasps,
finally able to drink his measure
sugar rushing to it's wings, it looks
somehow stronger, prouder
ready to face it's brief existance,
for whatever it may be worth
for what is a butterflys life
if not soaring through a penultimate sky,
admired by all, propagating, migrating
part of a long chain of successions
toward the North, and once again returning
for what purpose, only it's creator knows
perhaps only to lift the spirits of it's beholder.
Does a butterfly have to soar and flutter
to be part of life's penultimate cycle
even if struggling to pull itself to the highest branch,
and gaze upon the world, to which it emerged?
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