A charcoal black butterfly
with tiny bits of lavender
trim and through my twill
and fibers
I believed myself beautiful
and flew higher
with growing speed
and lengthening wing.
Someone told me
you're wrong, you're a moth,
as if it was an insult.
My wings vertical up
in the sun I fly
bulbous topped antennae
and why
I'd be called a moth,
I mean, nocturnal I find divine,
and in my tiny flying mind
knowing there are more moths
than butterflies
sensed belonging along a greater swath.
Away from my predator I flew
gracefully buoyantly
in an even better mood
saying in my tiny flying mind
... thank you.