The Butterfly at the end of the Avalanche

The butterfly at the end of the avalanche
wonders if it is safe to land
Or keep riding the (tail) wind.

Such is the danger of possibility.

The fallen leaves scream welcome
To the blue winter whirlwind
And the butterfly wonders, if it is the pioneer
Of the new age or merely,
Another vichy, a front
Behind which is written disaster
In an invisible ink au naturel.

Eye witnesses none, but for the leaves,
The photographer turned tail
No sooner the picture was taken.
They heard about it a mile away, but no one could tell
The colour the wind was written, the language it spoke…

The butterfly has no time to wonder, stand and stare,
To think would invite peril.
It was merely caught in history and rode on,
Its wings whirring at the speed of dusk,
No morning glories lie in its path.

Tunnel vision was all, and everyone saved what they could,
Looked at their bank accounts one last time,
Just so their progeny wouldn’t call them

The Butterfly at the end of the Avalanche

Careless, as a butterfly caught in a storm wind,
And still to decide which colour the storm blows, or
The sound it carries.