It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.
But these are flowers that fly & all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind & cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire
'Blue Butterfly'
"Chinese Larkspur"
by Robert Frost (1874-1963)
from: www.paghat.com
Hi Alana,
In the ruins of my garden, poetry can still sing to me - thought this one belonged here. Curiously, one of the local naysayers that insists no vandalism ever happened here hates poetry. How do we not see what we're looking at (rhetorical question)?
