Sometimes I see a nimbus of butterflies
other times they’re just a puzzle or
a tarradiddle to my eyes.

Would you look at that quandary of butterflies?
I ask a stranger, or do they call it
a quibble?

We’re expecting a downpour tomorrow
says the weatherman and
I know he speaks of butterflies.

A peccadillo, a meander, a complicity
perhaps I’m just confused —
a confabulation of butterflies.

For you, my love, I stir an elixir
of song, dance, and joy
a philter of butterflies.