Spring And The Passage Of Seasons.

They flew from bud to bud,
beautiful creatures,
every color in the palette
that nature provided.
They were orange, and brown,
blue and green,
resplendent images,
wings fluttering in the breeze.
Did they know that their lives are short?
They never rested long in one flower.
After spending a long time in a cocoon,
surrounded by gauzy matter,
impervious to sight or sound,
they joyfully traveled
among the other flowers, and
replaced the butterflies
who had their fill.
But, what about the flowers,
What of the green leaves?
They had no shiny exterior to show
to the world.
What of the tiny branches,
the nondescript brown
remnants of past glory?
Didn’t they deserve a turn in the sun?
Weren’t they God’s creatures too?
The butterflies live a short life.
They must know their time
has an expiration date.
They refuse to waste it
by staying in one place.
They refuse to be an ornament
in the garden.
But, what of the hunters,
who themselves
have short lives,
and shorter happiness?
Until, of course,
they are caught in a net,
and flattened or pinned,
so they can show off their colors
in someone’s display
of natural beauty.
In death, they become a trophy.
Their lives are frozen in time
until they are replaced
by another species,
more valuable,
and more beautiful.