I look at the decorative paper with colored illustrations of moths. They’re beautiful–why don’t people write more odes to moths? A moth is free.
The moth just like the butterfly comes to know flight, but when it’s sedentary it rests with its wings open unlike the butterfly. Why don’t we champion how it waits within this state of openness.
How when the moment comes it’ll be closer to readiness.

I look back at the many drawings on that same thin sheet over my desk and I want to cry. I guess I’m staying here a little longer; I will sit and rest like a moth–
preparing until I, too can take to the skies.

A poem flutters
in my chest with playful eyes,
I reach out my hand.

I saw a butterfly today.
Fluttering in daylight
Jewel of the sky

I was compelled
To speak with this butterfly
To know what thought
A butterfly would have

With her colors shifting left and right
Making the world jealous of her beauty
With an arrogant air
She ignored me

Stayed out of my reach
I eventually gave up.
My march no match for the vibrant colors
That loudly ignored me as I chased

As I tried to catch my breath
I found a moth on a bench.
She did not run away when I sat next to her.
She looked to be off in thought or severe concentration.
But my curiosity was stronger

“Why are you sitting here?”
                                            “I’m blending in to confuse the predators”
“Is it working well for you?”
                                            “It has thus far”

I examined the moth and found
Her artsy array was a profound example
Of nature’s artistic talents.
Browns and mahoganies and siennas galore.





“Why are you different than the butterfly?”
                                                    “­She is flashy and loves the attention. I like being invisible.
We each found something that works for us.”
To each its own I suppose.

Butterfly butterfly
You fly so high
You fly without hesitation
That’s at least what I see with my eyes

Animal animal
That’s the wish I had as a kid
To morph into anything
Whenever these toxic people
Came running
Only to put my happiness at risk

To the oceans I went
To swim with the otters
To the poles I went
To look fly like the penguins
To fields I disappeared
To run for excitement
To escape the bad memories

But for a moment
Just some small moments
Being me wasn’t always that bad

Animal animal
You were there at the low moments
And for that thank you,
You’ve been very kind

always chasing the elusive golden butterfly
people see me but I remain invisible
yet the promise of holding the fluttering creature
tickling my palms 
drives the whimsical wallflower to run
the bitter brew of morning is a siren call on my tongue
Taylor Swift's snakes turned into butterflies
perhaps they were never snakes
but lonely and misunderstood like Starbucks lovers
they deserve to feel salty
perhaps it's about embracing snakes rather than chasing butterflies then
papillon sounds much more romantic anyway
the fickle nature of happiness tells us, "Yeah, no, for sure"
which I think is yes but still might be no
and leaves behind the sour odor of last week's spaghetti
instead of chasing 
I think
No. I will commit to becoming
what many find elusive
Golden and Free.

For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. Keywords/Tags: butterfly, children, storm, lightning, thunder, hailstones, snow, frost, night, shelter, comfort, safety, rose, fire, warmth, Holocaust, Nakba, Gaza, Trail of Tears, slavery, injustice, abuse, ethnic cleansing, genocide