Beauty of the wings,
Swaying freely through the air,
In the day of spring,
Without an ounce of care

Swiftly cutting through the breeze,
Colorful and shy,
Caught the attention of me,
Now locked in the eye,

The feeling of striking gold,
Arm out, hoping for a land,
To nurture, cherish and hold,
Colors shot to my hand,

Slowly to the tip of the thumb,
The colors shined most up close,
My heart froze and become numb,
Butterflies is what I have I suppose.