The Butterfly Children

The end of the world did not come with an explosion

born from the wars of men or the weapons they made,

but the space voyagers came and went in their shuttles

until there was little but the breath of wind on the scape.

How could it be that the scientists foresaw a future

where the earth choked on its own smog and filth

when the green still persisted in its expansion?

It was a mystery because facts were hard to deny,

but the explorations to the stars beyond had distracted,

just as—I suppose—they were actually meant to do.

People may have become a sore commodity,

but the earth did not miss them, not really,

because even Mother Nature knew about toxic relationships.

But the strangest things of all were the butterflies,

so fleeting once in their appearances—born to die

too soon, all the ready to disappear by summer's end.

This was a different world, though, where humans

were no longer a threat to be concerned over.

Even the animals that had dug their graves before

began to creep out of their hovels and tread anew.

I remember one day I watched from my nexus post

as a shower of butterflies flooded the expanse,

miraculous, wondrous, true, and triumphant.

If symphonies still existed, I imagined how the violins

might have swelled in synchronicity with the burst.

What I thought was a trick of nature, one last hurrah,

I soon saw every morning before the launches.

And I wondered, watching from afar, why men fled

to the unknown of space and all its mysteries

when there was magic still to be found

on the planet they had once called home.

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