A Time of Butterflies

It's the time of butterflies to fly angelic wings drifting hurried by in the powdered blue clouded sky; retrograde illusions left from spring revolving a floating dance upon the wing venturing into summer's fling; hovering on echinacea cones resting momentary brief never alone, touching each water splashed stones; Lepidoptera orange peached winged gilds skipping flower petals imaginings fulfilled rare and delicate lives quickly spilled; sloe obsidian indigo shaped melds barely a moment to be held large and small and medium without bells; awe and wonder at bespeckled migrating swallowtails riding the gently salted sea wind sails monarchs of the day uncompromised and frail, grouped gatherings cluster to a southerly warm surprise down to Mexico, the gulf and reflected in a child's eyes the journey has begun and flight DNA memorized; observe and watch, their efforts on the clock of need spring north to breed and feed leggy landings graceful on the summer milkweed then south as summer fades away with winters ready to chill their fate each day for now, enjoy, let the butterflies play.