Butterfly
What’s in those flowers that you sip,
That makes you seem so tipsy?
We can’t tell if you’re coming from,
Albany or Poughkeepsie,
Or even if you’re going to,
One place or the other.
The way you travel seems to be,
You’re looking for your mother!
Just as a toddler wanders round,
With no fixed course in sight,
The butterfly flits both here and yon,
In most erratic flight.
It seems so inefficient,
Why can’t you just hold still?
And then you stop, and fold your wings,
Upon a daffodil.
You daintily step forward,
“I haven’t touched a drop!”
And just as sober as a Judge,
You spread your wings and FLOP!
And Flip, and Flap, and bounce.
A goonie in reverse.
How can you be so comical?
I know you don’t rehearse.
And yet you get where you must go,
God knows how you can do it.
Perhaps the use of folded hands,
And faith just leads you to it.
By NicknamedBob . . . . March 30, 2004
© 2004
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