I wiped my foggy window, crisp with the cold,
and I looked out to see a butterfly.
I could tell it was just as confused as me.
I knew it was looking for spring,
the bloom of flower and the color or green.
With hopes of spreading its wings in the sun.
Oh, but this butterfly could only see,
the white colorless ground and frozen beauties of winter.
I could tell the butterfly was weak,
with each beat of brittle wings, descending.
The rough winter winds hitting it like linemen.
I went outside, were the air nipped at my skin.
I saw the butterfly hurl to the ground in defeat.
I poked its wing waiting for softness, only to have it shatter.
There it was, the winter butterfly.
Laying on the ground as if it accepted death.
Closing its lidless eyes, smiling on imaginary lips.
This beautiful bug laying here, dead like everything around it.
Accepting death like a sweet sip of nectar.
This butterfly, with the soul of a Spartan, had a glimpse of winter.
