soft lashes
tremble a flower
as the butterfly
winks into flight
& there's a game here
of light
touch,
motion revealing
while concealing
the strengths
migration implied
but isn't this hidden strength
(as we find ourselves
at once across the garden,
a shot without an arrow)
itself hiding a flyer
made of but Air in Sun,
nectar capering
beneath the moon?
every wing color
is an illusion, a veil
made of lenses; beauty
always betrays the eye
by revealing it
so here's to any fancies
who dodge straight flights
for apparent
idle
sips