the flutter of a butterfly’s wings

last saturday, i poured faucet droplets into a pond so i could watch the ripples and

this week, it caused a tsunami and i swear i’m sorry sorry sorry

there’s a chrysalis of hourglass sand staring right at me and i dare not

try to heat it up and turn it into glass because i know what the shards will do but

there’s a tree in the backyard that i fell from and broke my wrist and i wonder

if the person who planted its seed would give me a splint of apologies

silver caterpillar on the kitchen counter: would you tell me what it means?

when a tornado breaks your heart, does the cocoon help you breathe?

i jumped into converse sneakers, ran out the door with a backpack, and

i sprinted to the eye of the hurricane just so i could use it to see

the wings of a butterfly are paper thin, yet their gentle flutter commands the wind

the past is the past, but if you don’t rinse your sins, at the end of the day, the clock still spins

i slipped and snuffed out the dining-room candle, and next saturday, a wildfire came

and all the pretty little blue delicate butterflies mocked me as they brought the rain

i looked into a crystal ball and saw a kaleidoscope of milkweed fields

pupae rested on every leaf and warned me: little girl, don’t you tamper with the future just yet

so i shut my eyes and ran to the garden and waited for the butterfly effect butterfly effect 

butterfly effect