butterfly

In summer, or spring, one year to the next,
The caterpillar works; cocoon is spun.
In hopeless ecclesiastical text,
Nothing is new if it's under the sun.

What's mutation if nothing is new?
Larval and pupal and then to the skies!
Time's variations of colors accrue,
Granting elusion from avian eyes.

But the more you look, the more you are bound
To the futility voiced by the words.
For if the butterfly wasn't around,
Something more bland would be eaten by birds.

So nothing changes, and that is the truth:
It's just wings and color and blood and tooth.