From a dreary hangar, perched high in the air,
a butterfly sits with a lonely stare.
Soothing is the silence, from which it came,
to a dull existence, it’s contained.
In time it will fly, as the cocoon will erupt,
in the meantime it matures, as its season shapes up.
From a dreary hangar, perched high in the tree,
soon our butterfly will be esprit.
Turn winter, turn spring, warm breezes in the air,
off comes the wrapping of its gentle snare.
Churning, churning, and churning with glee,
the cocoon is open, our butterfly is free.
Perched gently atop a flower’s flare,
for Evan to watch with a gentle stare.