No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -
November!
Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward,
strong beyond the garden-wall!
Butterfly, why do you settle on my
shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe,
Lifting your veined wings, lifting them?
big white butterfly!
Already it is October, and the wind
blows strong to the sea
from the hills where snow must have
......
No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
......
I recall the rural life of the butterfly
Extravagantly —that proud floating mass of wings.
Her wings flutter from sea to coast so eloquently,
Yet silent with the muteness of frightened breeze.
They are banners with buntings of newness — striped,
Spotted, arched, dotted.
Her flamboyant life history, reading it backwards,
Is an exhibition of time and cosseted patience . . . .
The winged one, aged and tried, schleps to the stirs of a narcoleptic pupa,
Hanging on the banisters of a dear larva who’s egged on to
......
To a park of blooms graced with charm,
Dancing butterflies came in swarm,
Whose flight seemed synchronized in grace,
In every hue they waltzed in space!
Then as one graced each waiting bloom,
Fragrant as the twilights of June,
And they paused there for endless hours,
As though waiting for moonflowers.
......
I am the queen of beauty the common butterfly,
I spread my wings and flap away among the trees I fly.
My wings exhibit colours of green yellow and blue,
red, orange and brown and even purple too.
I live in many countries and lands of different rule,
high up in the mountains or fields behind the school.
But I like the warmer weather which makes me feel alive,
......
I recall the rural life of the butterfly
Extravagantly —that proud floating mass of wings.
Her wings flutter from sea to coast so eloquently,
Yet silent with the muteness of frightened breeze.
They are banners with buntings of newness — striped,
Spotted, arched, dotted.
Her flamboyant life history, reading it backwards,
Is an exhibition of time and cosseted patience . . . .
The winged one, aged and tried, schleps to the stirs of a narcoleptic pupa,
Hanging on the banisters of a dear larva who’s egged on to
......
butterfly in blue
wafting skies we always knew
in orange-gold sun
redbirds sing farewell
a warm hour of green flowers
when still wind listens
to meadows and woods
minty lanes where beauty hides
......
Autumn is golden
mirrored in still glinting lake
Sunbeams through plum trees
Nature's so long symphony
when birds soar in sympathy
Tiffany skies chills
pink robin is still singing
to an empty hall
Last beats of butterfly wings
......
peacock butterfly
in wildflower touch and go ~
prancing in fragrance
sun's reached its zenith
the world has turned green again ~
with colors galore