The Flower And The Butterfly

How pretty in the city gardens ,

the flowers singing .

The crowded rush of feet do pass without notice

the brightly coloured headed beauty of petals dancing ,

pink and violet blue and sun cup yellow and white ,

nodding their sway to the gentle breeze kissing them .

Yielding a rhythm ,

straight , fragile long stems ever reaching upward ,

heavy petalled heads ,

even to the brighter , quieter sun .

I hear them growing .

One dances differently that I notice her .

Could it know , that one single bloom of my joy and reason ,

for my most exalted mood ?

It nods in the breeze it’s own glory . . .

A butterfly sits upon it , the tender flower bows

the weight a beckoned welcome ,

petals a soft pillow for her weary feet .

The butterfly , I hear her crying ,

I feel her pondered thoughts that shatter the silence

from the world around me that is away.

I understand her transient journey ,

her brief and fleeting life .

the gift of beauty that she is and that she bought to my day .

Now , heavy and tired wings rest ,

for a moment , yes rest your flight .

A flit and lift and the gift of her departs ,

her music heard like wind flutes as the air gathers and is pushed

aside of her moving floating wings ,

moving air like breath .

Her tiny silk paper wings carried her leaving .

Straight stemmed pretty flower faces and I trembled pleasure watching her ,

her flight merely a whisper on the air ,

then , she was gone . . .

I felt crushing around me again the haste of the world .