A butterfly lands on your arm.
It slowly opens and closes its wings,
Catching your attention as the sunlight glimmers
On the wings constructed from tiny, oily scales.
You want it to stay, but soon it flies away,
Leaving you behind in your own dismay.
You'd like to capture it in a jar,
But it would surely die if you held it captive for as long as you'd like.
Gripping it with your fingers would destroy the very thing you seek.
Following it would quickly become impossible,
As you are unable to fly, yourself--hence its appeal--
And what good would it do to follow it till its end?
Or perhaps you despise butterflies
And wish to crush it, smash it to smithereens,
But you'd be covered in its innards, left with a mess:
It would have its revenge from beyond the grave:
For all your hateful effort, you would not be rid of it.
Realizing the errant nature of these urges,
You let it flitter away, to whatever fate
awaits its buttery-winged life,
Content that while you won't know it well
And may never see it again,
It's best for the both of you to part freely
After your brief chance encounter.
And you realize that there will always be more butterflies.