I think that I shall never spy
A poem quite like a butterfly.
A butterfly whose wings are spread
So prettily above its head;
A butterfly that flies all day,
And lifts its tiny wings to pray;
Whose wings that may in Summer wear
Rainbows of colors in mid-air;
Come Winter's snow, they disappear;
Come Summer's warmth, they reappear.
Poems are made by fools like I,
But only God makes butterflies.
Copyright January 2008
With both thanks and apologies to
Joyce Kilmer and his