Sweet Butterfly, with wings now dry 'tis time to break away
and light upon the leaves of dawn while weeping willows sway,
not reminisce 'bout chrysalis discarded yesterday,
but treasure life, with colors rife in nature's cabaret.
Sweet Butterfly, I've heard you sigh "terrene so strange and new"
but take a chance, with winged expanse of fairy-like bijou,
to taste delight in random flight, to drift beyond the blue
and then collect her pearly nectar, sipped like morning dew.
Sweet Butterfly, you question why the breeze is seldom soft
when swirling you, your wings askew, while floating free aloft.
Some seem to find their peace of mind believing gods have coughed,
but others, downed, have often found more freedom when they've scoffed.
Sweet Butterfly, you needn't cry, the fields are full of clover,
like meadowlands of braided strands in winds and waves that wove her -
but if you fear that, more than here, the other side is mauver,
just flutter by, behind the sky, unfettered flitting rover.
Sweet Butterfly, farewell, goodbye, you've left the world behind.
We now look back along the track of flowers that you've mined
recalling days of light sashays and movements unconfined
that complement the firmament where beauty lies enshrined.
Terry O’Leary defines himself as "A physicist lacking gravity...".