The Silverspot

she stops the car

hoping to avoid

crushing the silverspot

one day it might flap wings,

brighten a child’s afternoon,

motivate an adult to reconsider

today it writhes

indifferent to industry

or machinations

across seas of gravel

she honks the horn,

etches brows,

pleads with green eyes,

waits, we wait,

for the silverspot

to move its fuzzy,

black, orange form

across the road

to live another day,

and another when it might

become a butterfly,

a transformation we all surely desire

If it doesn’t move,

she’ll exit the car,

carry the silverspot to safety.

I’ve seen her do it a dozen times.