Butterflies

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BUTTERFLIES
 
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.
 
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright January 2008
 
With both thanks and apologies to
Joyce Kilmer and his "Trees"
 
 



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