Butterflies moving
the hands of a
grandfather clock.

They’re just
hoping they can
change times mind.

If time
could hug them
they’d love it.

They ache
for attention.

The grandfather
clock opens
his stomach.

He spits out
all the wrong
words.

Letters without
sentences.

Butterflies just
long for simplicity.

Yet they’re
stuck in beauty.

In their wings
are fences
locked forever.

The Victorian
house fell down around
them long ago.

If only spring
had influenced all
the other seasons.