The Butterfly

At day's end, the wanderer slowed to catch his breath, 

well aware of the waning sun,

and dreading just a little the night ahead...

when came a fellow traveler, winging blithely past,

settling nearby for a late-day repast.

This youngster, with wingbeats light, 

wasted not its tongue on words, 

lapping instead the nectar sweet.

Nectar,

"Drink of the Gods,"

the wanderer mused.

Had I but the butterfly's tongue, I'd worry not with words.

I'd drink and groom and stroke my mate,

but never again a syllable slur,

or ever a name misspeak.

Had I but the butterfly's wings, 

my joints would never know the night's harsh chill.

I'd fly all day unto the west, 

pausing but to bask and eat and rest.

And then a voice.

Felt,
more than heard...

Whispered,

melancholy,

clear...

Life on the breeze is surely sweet, 

and for food, 

nectar has no peer.

But this life of mine is measured dear,

in days and hours and minutes,

never even a year.

A hundred of my lifetimes you've already lived, 

and several more besides...

envy not the butterfly,
poet,

love the life you have.

Illumined thus, 

his pace renewed,
and on his lips a familiar tune,
of life and love and hope renewed,
flying westward, as it were, ever into the sun...