With The Butterfly Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like thunderbolts they've been
Snapping up the rainstorms—
Well, dogs, they've been leaping,
Leaping:
Until they are going home without
Any answers:
There they are, just as beautiful as
Any home on the other side
Of stained glass windows without
Any answers,
As I've been calling through
The monuments of the eye-less skydivers:
And this is the place where they belong,
Calling together into their shadows,
I don't even suppose they can
Reason for themselves—with or
Without their star-crossed lovers,
As they've been beating away for hours and
Hours—
Burying their wings into the places that cannot
Hold without any shadows—
Until the lances beckon for the sweethearts of
Her children,
And the highways end up right in the sweet spots
Of her bedrooms—
And the waves glisten off the lips of the prepubescent
Giants,
And all of the night laughs away into their cathedrals:
And the airplanes touch down in the foothills
Of the truants' memories,
Until it already feels alright to survive,
And you are called back to a home that feels
Entirely believable—next to me,
And to the tortoise who is happily eating his
Breakfast with the butterfly.