When you touch a butterfly it loses power over its wings

You destroy it, make it static

The greatest insult comes from preventing movement

Because suddenly

It can’t escape the surrounding wreckage

It’s trapped, prey to predators

Only knows rubble

And I wonder why,

If we know that we hurt the butterfly,

We’re tempted to touch its wings anyway.

This post is part of the A-Z Challenge. My theme is April Scribble, which includes microfiction, small vignettes, and poetry.

For more alphabetical goodness, click here.