Diana Fritillary butterfly on Mike Harbour’s Zennias.
As flickering bits of confetti,
torn paper cast they float
attaching to flowers and trees.
Flashes of sparkling color,
iridescent hues of the rainbow
trace these aerial spindly creatures.
The trees are telling nature
to get ready for the season’s child
a capricious snowy headed cherub.
Yet here are the last hangers-on,
pausing to pose for a picture
then gliding away to another petal.
Do they smell the air as I,
a mosaic breath of warmth, chill,
blended with damp dead leaves, and musk.
Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.
Gray has muted the sun’s light,
scudding clouds have dismissed it
they forage to drop their burden.
I wonder why the butterflies linger
defying the moment to drink the last nectar,
fall is waiting with its frosty wings.
Maybe it is because only their kiss
can comfort summer’s passing flowers
to promise resurrection in the spring.
©2012, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
I liked the stop posed in the question, ‘Do they stop to smell the air…?’ I never thought of this sensory aspect of butterflies. Also like the image suggested of Fall’s frosty wings. Thank you for this poem.
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Nice evocation of fall, Donald. I wish there is fall here.
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There are still butterflies about here, despite the chill. I like the observation in your poem very much.
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That ending is very sweet indeed. Well joins the threads within the whole.
Makes me think, next time, I should go to that local wintering home for the Monarch butterflies close to here.
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“Rest arises from the earth
pushing furry babes to deep burrows,
proclaiming sleep will save you.”
This is beautiful and the last two stanzas…I witnessed and captured the photo of a butterfly doing the very same…I really like your ideas in this portion. Well done!
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