The Butterfly Poem by Medha Upreti

A butterfly flew nearer.
With no intention of scaring it,
I sat still, breathing slowly.
It flew directly at me,
its wings fluttering maddeningly
in the gentle breeze.
It touched my forehead,
flew over my head.
With no intention of scaring it,
I sat still, breathing slowly.
My hairoil, gently perfumed,
may have lured the flutterby.
It hovered around my head.
Up close the butterfly looked fragile.
With no intention of accidentally killing it,
I stood and made my exit.
Sometimes it's wise to let go first.