Arrested in the spider’s sticky strings,
a butterfly appeared suspended where
the web was hung; she worked her fairy wings
of gold and black against the autumn air
like eyelids blinking in a sudden light.
But sails of vibrant dust were never meant
to hoist more than ideas to any height,
so soon her body caught and she was spent.

A half a minute let me justify
an interference, for no spider came.
I ran outside to free the butterfly
but never did I touch her wings or aim
for any other thing than liberty
for butterflies in spider webs, and me.