Chrysalises

The little girl, though very ill,

  Went out one morning

To wander, with faltering footsteps,

  The nearby hill.

She brought back mountain flowers

  In which she hid

A chrysalis and, unknowing, set it

  Close beside her bed.

A few days later, at the moment

    She lay dying,

We all gathered round, our eyes

  Red with crying,

And at the instant she departed

  The whisper of wings

Was heard, and through the window,

  Taking flight, escaping

Into the waiting garden, wafted

  A golden butterfly.

Hurriedly, I searched for the insect’s

  Now empty prison,

Then turned my gaze to the dead child’s

  Pallid brow.

If the winged butterfly, I thought, leaves

  Its confining cell

To find light and space and the immensity

  Of golden fields,

What shall the newly freed soul find when

  It bursts its shell?