The Butterfly

I thought to sketch a butterfly,

my notebook open in my lap

as the pages glowed in the moonlight.

Pen to paper, mind to hand,

imagination would guide my strokes

as the ink rolled beneath my thumb

but fate had other plans.

As I stared at the crude artistry

with its unkempt lines and unclean shading

I turned over my palms to find black smudges

and a shadow drawing near.

There was no audible fluttering,

not a flurry of wings to hear,

but a flapping through my stomach and out of my chest

as a lone Adonis Blue

floated downwards for a rest.

At first she appeared a moth;

Unassuming and unbothered,

bustling, beating wayward wings.

But when you catch her perching

on a twig, or with luck a finger,

I urge you to study her well before she flees.

At first I thought her a Painted Lady

by the likes of Rothko or Mondrian,

so simple and elegant in her beauty

(though she denies the comparison.)

But when she lands upon my arm

my cheeks burn a crimson blush,

I think her a Red Admiral, a Duke of Burgundy,

a Purple Emperor, a Monarch;

Surely, only a regal could be so elegant

and delicate to the touch.

Her eyes are Common Blue, she claims,

no matter how much they look Green-veined White

just two shades off from gray.

Her skin is a pale Wood White, too;

She prefers a midnight breeze to morning dew

but can be spotted on a stormy day.

Her wings hang wide to hold the wind

and carry her through the rain.

They compliment her Black Hairstreak

re-dyed and recolored

like flowing ink falling to paper from the sky;

a poem better composed than any written with this pen

that can hardly sketch a butterfly.