Somehow

It is all okay,
for somewhere in Minnesota,
fighting wind,
flies a butterfly all white,
and somehow,
through sunrises and sunsets,
through winds and rains,
through tornadoes that twist silos
and drive pieces of straw through trunks of trees,

somehow through all this
the fine dust on its wings remains intact
somehow it flies and lives.

With this my worries vanish as if chaff,
I am left with nothing but grains of substance,
small and delicate things exposed,
and protected by something as small as the sky.