Butterflies
Butterflies flitting through the flowers,
contentedly they pass the hours.
From flower to flower they bob and weave
and then at sunset, take their leave.
Merrily their flowers they tend,
'til their lives are at an end.
If only we could open our eyes
and be as contented as butterflies.
written May 10th. 1978
posted for PD's ' any old butterfly poem' contest
Copyright © Francine Roberts | Year Posted 2011
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