There she flits, this butterfly
Flutters by, alights on blooms
With certain grace and eloquence.
But no more to a petal of mine.
Once, she did, many moons ago
Favour flowed upon my seasonal rose;
She'd tarry awhile, row upon row.
These days her wings soar gaily
On other climes, in other garden beds,
With the distinct exception of mine.
Perhaps this rose by any other name
Has lost its nectar, has lost its rhyme:
This garden unattractive and dry.
Farewell, fair butterfly, farewell.
Without fanfare this scorned rose
Shall shrivel away and surely die.