where the writers are

When I die, I'll be reborn a butterfly,
and hope no child steps on me, when a caterpillar, 
in innocent, sadistic glee;
or pins me to a cardboard box for a school show and tell.

If I make it through that wormy stage,
I'll wrap myself in a silk cocoon,
and pray no one cuts down the tree in which I rest
to build unwanted dwellings.

Once I exit my silken womb, I will
 joyfully bask in sunshine gardens,
flying with purpose among the vibrant blooms.

I hope to escape the steaming engines which move
along gray rivers that leave so many butterflies
dead on the pavement waters.

If I make it through my season, finally at my end,
I hope I return as a flower to feel my child's blessing,
As she lights softly on my petals, and faces the perils of man.