The Mystery

That quiet misty morning,
Walking along the flat concrete,
I noticed a shining silken handkerchief,
Hanging from a gnarled oak.

I walked over quizzically,
Longing to reach out and touch that flowing mystery.
But once there, the fluttering mystery,
Was not a mystery,
But a cocoon.

The butterfly was about to show itself!
I decided to stay and watch the miracle unfold.

I waited for what seemed like days, months, YEARS!
But nothing happened.
Finally, my patience gone,
I blew long and hard on that cocoon,
Thinking that I would magically speed up nature’s clock,
And soon enough,
The butterfly appeared.

First the antennae,
Then the tiny head,
And then the rest of it’s pathetic little body.
The shock nearly killed me,
For I then knew it was I who had caused this horrid transformation.

The wings of the butterfly
Resembled crumpled used up paper.
So I quickly began to blow  hard on the poor creature,
But to no avail.
What did I think it would do?
Magically revive the butterfly?
I will never know.

That little spirit,
The tiny butterfly,
Could have been beautiful,
But because of me, it never was.
Now, I know that we should never try to slow down,
Or speed up nature’s eternal clock.
Nature was not meant to be tampered with.
I will never forget the lesson I learned,
On that quiet misty morning.