wings

this time
when the marigold butterflies arrive,
resting on the ground
gently opening and closing wings
with grace, without purpose
or else the purpose is to bestow it upon me,
most-honored guest

at night
the sound of a moth's wings flitter above my head,
searching along the edge of the wall
desperate for an exit.
he belongs outside,
but his instincts have enslaved him
to a floor lamp.