My grandson screams and runs away
from a butterfly, flutterflower,
wings fine as petals.
The butterfly, gentlest creature,
flies on, perhaps abashed, perhaps,
feeling manly for having made
a child cry, to pick a fight
with a Monarch.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Ethics of Rhetoric in Times of War
What we say matters. And the way we say it matters. This is especially true in times…
How the State Failed Noelia Castillo
On March 26, Noelia Castillo, a twenty-five-year-old Spanish woman, was killed by her doctors at her own…
The Mind’s Profane and Sacred Loves
The teachers you have make all the difference in your life. That they happened to come into…
