The way butterflies do,
with apparent ease.

The way butterflies do,
when they flit through the trees.

The butterfly happened to lite,
on a lone milkweed blossom.

The others were hiding,
or, at least, playing possum.

But it was no time for jest,
just another victim of drought.

Nothing is what it was,
or what it ought.

The trees were all gone,
but the milkweed hung on,

As the last butterfly's wings,
sang its swan song,

and died.