Deep in the garden,
Among the violets,
Butterflies stand on a stem.
Their wings are made of lace,
Soft feathers
Surround their face,
It’s as if the garden
Was made just for them.

They flit lazily from flower to flower,
Hungrily drinking their fill,
And when they are done,
They fall asleep
With the sun,
To the music
Of the mourning dove’s trill.