The butterflies rise from the fruit
born of the cogs and bones of an inquisitive mind.
Where is the winding key
that sets their flight in motion?
I have a secret, a wish
concealed in the pearl of the fruit.
It cannot be juiced, only revealed
when the veil is lifted.
Crack, goes the wood.
Crack, go the leaves,
leaving only the blossoms
to float down to your palm,
wingbeats fragile as they die.