The Parable of the Butterfly
She fell into my lap and inconsolably flopped around. Poor little thing mistook the morning sun for a daffodil and burned her tongue.
Perhaps she needed a drink. Innocently I picked her up, held her gentle to the dew. No. Her tongue remained a frazzled ribbon.
When the magic fairy dust rubs off a butterfly’s wings, the little creature dies.
I buried her and wept, my fingers covered in yellow powder.
The grass stains remained on my jeans for years like stale guilt.
When my time comes, I’ll die during a storm as neither sinner nor hero, but healer for the living and keeper for the dead.
Megan D. Henson is a graduate student of English at Northern Kentucky University. Her poetry has been published in many art galleries including Harriet Beecher Stowe House in Cincinnati. She lives in Ohio with her husband.