In a bowered place that only Pixies know about Tucked down between The weeping willow’s boughs, And not far from a singing rivulet There lives a butterfly with gorgeous wings, Transparent in the morning sun And luminous at twilight. Her wings are patterned in chartreuse With royal purple fantasies That end in trailing gossamer. Feeding on the buttercups and clover, Her afternoons are bathed in a tranquility That obviates the need to fly. And so the gentle butterfly does not, But rests and ponders what is on the breeze That transforms air to symphonies And blends with everything nearby To make a perfect potpourri Of serenity and peace. ljm
Been trying for 8 days now to post this. Not sure it's worth the anger and frustration of the Bad Gate Wall If this keeps up maybe the overload of Newbies will all get disgusted and leave and let us old-timers post again. Where the Hell are you, Eliot? What are you doing?