Butterfly wings

I was told not to touch sleeping butterfly’s wings,
so as not to disturb their powdered surface.
They slept like grey leaves;
book covers closed to the breeze.

I tried to read them.
They would not divulge.
Stubborn little sails
silhouetted on the damp beam.

I touched the sleeping butterfly’s wings,
smudging their soft powdered surface.
Frail origami structures flightless,
in stillness were silent.

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