Some butterflies live only one week 

                 There Is Time

six and a half days to make memories
to rub wings against another
to flatten your silhouette
then open wide for what awaits

thousands of seconds
to sit with friends in orange and black Echinacea flowers
to lay your head into the gusts and become the morning’s kite

a half day to carry the memories made
to settle in a bush that steals shadows without malice
to sit with your many legs        still as Buddha
and feel breath pulse your wings
then listen

to the sound
     of your six feet clapping