Trade My Skin
Trade Your Skin
Who knew you’d trade your tender skin
For something finer, something thin?
An iridescent new blue suit,
To wear when sipping sour fruit.
Who knew you’d transform, by and by
From human form to butterfly?
With eyes that hide beneath your wings,
You watch on high for heavenly things.
Who knew you’d be an insect fair,
And waft away on misty air?
Then pause and warm your wings in sun.
You knew, Blue Morpho. You’re the one.
Copyright © Ann Ingalls | Year Posted 2019
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