"If I were meant to soar up there with you,"
said the creepy caterpillar to the colourful butterfly,
fluttering by overhead,
"and not stay crawling earthbound here instead,
I would have been born with wings,
and it will be over my body when dead,
akin to a murder of crows,
before you'll get me up
in one of those
funny-looking flying things."
a flitting bouquet
plumage versus foliage
warblers on display
Yellow Swallowtail
Frail wings, spots of cyan blue
Flew on flitting sails.
Flitting's like floating
only with
the least amount
and most
ineffectual
intention.
Intention
without
clarity
without
conviction
without
direction
without
without.
Each waft
a contravention.
Somersault of
summer
butterflies,
but better:
butterflits...
Plummer salts
of Winter,
snowfalls
but better:
snowflits...
Though flitting's
altogether fitting
if near-enough
to Surrender
is your kind of
Splendor.
Blink of glance, fleeting touch on fingers flit
furtive; just out of reach your desire pants,
wantonly wanting the touch of desire.
Warming to hot with anticipation,
willing the wait to gain, not wane in vain,
not early this time our coming be joined.
flitting butterflies
sucking honey from flowers
smell sublime fragrance