One Butterflies Query To A Little Girl's Precociousness Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

One early morning as the Sun drew Dawn
an Ediths Checkerboard spoke to a child,
asked, why do butterflies die so young, then smiled.
I have no idea, I 'm just a little girl,
Chrysalis and Wing-dusts do resemble glossed pearls,
and a plethora of the fore mentioned synchronized duo
has propensity to transmogrify a promiscuous imago
into a hounds tooth, wool-eating, tiny circle hole-making,
mother munching moth of Versace fine tasting,
albeit, ha-ha, that really never happens, at all,
as I heard a wise cat tell a ''piller'', TALL-
that you can never ever really 'catch a' piller',
for their addiction to flight is a dangerous thrill-er
until the 'piller' is caught, cuffed...redeemed-
so I found out one day reading Time Magazine
You see 'pillers' fly high... just like you,
it's what ''pillers'' and butterflies of nature do;
they just land from a different micro dimension,
born to take-off in half-baked suspension;
and I heard it's quite scary tho' very temporary
that it obscures the ''pillers'' perception and memory.

My, my said Edith, how precocious you be.
How is it you possess such knowledge of me?
an erudite scope of polymorphistic knowledge;
might I ask if you've attended a bug college?
Your amplitude finds me and shines me,
my family and fellow Lepidoptera seeds!
Said the little girl to the Edith butterfly,
with a wide white-tooth mile of smile
mischievous, perhaps but quite wise
that shone through her little girl eyes,
'I 'm not sure, to be sure,
but one twilight, by shore
I saw a Brood of butterflies 'neath the sun,
and I Heard most butterflies live past years of one, and-
if they, and their mates could curtail their sore Brood-ing
they'll appear to revel... with much flair and well-doing,
in the late afternoon by the curious lake loons,
as sun passes torch to the eventide moon,
behind the swampiest of weed that guises the bays
where butterflies choir their wing Brood-ing ways-
'neath the summer sky of celestial light
as they kick-up their wing-dust all through the night,
and Peace doth rain down on them quietly,
a pouring of Peace from the King of Deity.


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Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR