The Butterfly
The Butterfly
A butterfly came sat upon my hand in mid July
I stood so still
I couldn't feel
His wings they moved about
I wondered why he landed there on me instead of fly
To fair flowers
With less hours
He knew there was no doubt
Yet there he was he came to me and I indulged his lie
And then he flew
In search of dew
Who knows
He flits about...
deborah burch©
6/2006
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