Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.

On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.

Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?

Image by Pexels