Heaven's drunkard is the butterfly,
Tipsy on flowers, Mr. flutter-on-by:
Papier-mache wings wafting along,
He flies on currents of invisible song.
He could stop but the flowers are so many,
Beckoning with pastel faces of plenty;
At night he dreams of hot-house bouquets,
And dances with them, a fine polonaise.
The beauty of your words blend and express so well, with the beauty of nature all about us.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I see a wonderful poet enjoying her creative gifts... Such a wonderful poem Jim Troy