The butterfly lives to kiss the flowers;
meeting, greeting, midwifing in passing,
bright flash of flutter,
too soon dead in the gutter,
leaving behind beauty,
the science that is art,
the art that is pollen and sap: life,
accidental meeting of vitality,
flicker, barest caress,
twitch of antenna
toward pheromone not colour.
Sip deeply of the nectar,
brush petal to petal,
kissing again and again
for a moment
and that is all.
YOU ARE READING
Sweeping Winds and Rainbow Beginnings
PoetryThese are a few of my poems. I would prefer to take my time and try to sort the better ones out from the rubbish so it might take me a while to collect. I hope you can stop by and enjoy a poem or several. In poetry (good or bad) we express something...
