If the butterfly flaps its wings twice in an instant,
Unnoticed but for the way it flits from place to place
Never settling for long,
Then what does it mean when, finally,
It finds the place it can call home?

They say that home is where you love,
Where your feet may leave,
But not your heart.
And no matter where the world takes you,
It is always where you will return.

Is it, then, a place,
Marked on the map, ordinary,
For anyone to find?
Or is it something else entirely; the parts that only you can see,
The parts you know that no one else does?

The butterfly lands where fate means to tip its hand,
Which is to say for someone who is drifting,
Somewhere he has never been.
If it flaps its wings twice in an instant,
No one sees but the blind hand of that fate, leading on,

And into the unknown;
Territory uncharted, in a city that sits above so many others,
Where the air grows thinner with every step he takes,
Until he cannot breathe but for hoping that somehow,
It will come to mean something,