An amazing thing about butterflies, landing and not landing on every flower, every substance or surface, every leaf with water residue
Smeared across it,
Its chill tickling their haired toes,
Or landing upon
Every hair on the head of your first, blonde-haired son
On a bright spring day….

It’s like… they belong to a world where they can’t be touched or they crumple like dead  autumn leaves in your hand…
That being said, I believe they keep their distance

to protect themselves- to keep away from the world. Perhaps their very essence depends on their ability
To

Touch down lightly.

The air is their friend, They shall not want- they shall not wander, drift away from it all, let themselves succumb. The only things they definitively touch are other butterflies, and still, sitting upon each other’s backs like
The dear blonde boy’s son on his mother’s

On a bright spring day, stuck in midair, not wishing the bliss, the will, or the survival to be ruined…

If they touch down….

Even when they are far-gone, their shells still so empty and their bead-eyes so confined to their crisp bodies (open) and
(If they are
so lucky), even when they are dead, they still

Touch down lightly, almost

As if they were never a one
of this world to
begin with.