The butterfly's loping flight
carries it through the country of leaves
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping
here and there to fuzzle the damp throats of flowers and the black mud; up
and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes
for long delicious moments it is perfectly lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then
the butterfly rose, weightless, in the wind. "Don't love your life
too much," it said,
and vanished into the world.
One or Two Things
by Mary Oliver