Touched gingerly by the manna petals,
captivated by the fragrance.
The vibrant butterfly tunnels
with exuberance beyond endurance.
That puny creature flies yards by yards,
flapping the remnants of the crayon,
formed from the crystals of sards.
She transcends her elegance within the transient yon.
Roses prosper in all shades
still cannot match her grace.
The mesmerized class of fish wades,
futile, they are in the haste to catch her pace.
In gardens, backyards or forests,
you can always see those wings soaring.
Flushed with confidence and jests ,
she keeps flying.
She spurts some enigma.
The sullen sulk becomes gay.
Some say she is Comma,
others vouch her to be West Coast Lady.
Poets ponder and thinkers think,
“What is it to be like her?”,
drenched in the rainbow’s ink.
But the frolic fly flies above their power.
I yearn to be painted like her,
to kiss the sky and embrace the grounds,
to be ephemeral and explore Nature,
to spend my days taking worldly rounds!