Sonnet (1), on a Butterfly

A traveler hailed from antique lands of light
She lilted in on eddies made of air
Exotic gifts from far flung lands to bear
Upon my petalled couch did she alight
Recounted tales to me of high delight
Of distant places wide and passing fair
Insouciant spaces, blithe, without a care
Enrapt was I to hear her fairy plight
Enrapt was I, to hearing was I bound
For I am but a lowly purple flower
My roots are tethered to the ground
My wings fly not, but form for her a bower
Where lilting she may land without a sound
And spend with me a sacramental hour.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. Max Leyf says:

    “Shrouded by secret veil of mysteries
    Remains the origin of her histories
    Her first beginnings she remembers not
    They fade from sight as dying embers wrought
    Of a forgotten life, intimations…”

    Like

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