Chrysalises

The little girl, though very ill,  Went out one

To wander, with faltering footsteps,  The nearby hill.

She brought back mountain flowers  In which she hidA 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

Was heard, and through the window,  Taking flight,

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

To find light and space and the immensity  Of golden fields,

What shall the newly freed soul find when  It bursts its shell?