Spruce Flats Butterflies

Butterfly, wild and free
you know, you kinda look like me.

Frail and fluttering in autumn's warm embrace,
never truly occupying space,
never still long enough.
Lost in flight to a world unknown,
a gentle world of your own,
you seem to see things differently.
Life tries to hold you in its hand,
but you're on your way to another land
somewhere in your mind.

Man reaches out to touch your glow,
but the warmth comes from within, you know,
and it's hidden deep inside.
He crushes now your frail nervous wings,
frail, nervous, fluttering things,
and then the man finds
a very soft, warm simple being,
whose wings kept most the world from seeing,
warm and simple thing.

And then he sees what he has done,
the wings look dull now in the sun,
frail and fragile colors.
And the warm and simple is all he sees,
the wings are blown about in the breeze...
Butterflies don't last very long.

I see you, butterfly, in autumn's warm wind,
torn apart, never to mend,
frail and fluttering with too much ease,
wings blown away by autumn's warm breeze.
Just the warm and simple that no one sees,
lost, lying on the earth.

The wind was warm; the wind was strong;
no, butterflies don't really last very long.
Butterfly you look like me.