I keep my butterfly in a jar
and it sits on display atop my mantle.
I drill tiny air holes in the tin lid,
spread grass across the bottom
and nestle a twig for perching.
But over time the lawn turns brown
and condensation is in drought.
So my imago desires to fly
and unfold the black and gold wings
fluttering against the rounded wall.
In an embrace I grasp the glass case,
knowing I have to unscrew the cap
and discard it far out of sight.
I sit back and turn my head to sigh
and await patiently for flight.
