The Butterfly

On one clear and fresh spring morning
I sat against a tree,
And spied a pretty butterfly
Which lighted on my knee.
Its’ wings of gossamer splendor
And heavens jewelry.

I fancied there to capture it
And keep it just for me,
But conscience quick betrayed my plan
And warned me sullenly,
That beauty reigns not from a cage
And withers when not free.

A parable was then recalled
Into my memory
That stated that if somethings’ loved
And then fondly released,
That it will soon return to you;
Or such should never be.

Thinking this, I uncupped my hands,
And swept it to the breeze,
And watched it exit from my sight,
Oh, floating merrily.
I waited all the summer long;
Yes, waited patiently.

The butterfly did not return
Though many did I see.
Others perhaps more beautiful,
Adorned exquisitely.
Yes, many pretty butterflies…
But not the one for me.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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