small boy nestled
flaxen hair draped
gently over brilliant calico fibers
of a soft and rocking hammock
coddles and wrapped like a
cocoon, I say, and he says,
"can a butterfly come out
instead of me?"
oh dear, my dear
sweet cushiony worm wriggling
sad you must not be
so sad you must not be
so sad.
there are fountains of
morning glories for the tasting.
I'll bundle you up,
little precious
take you home
take you home
can a
butterfly come out
instead
of
me?