As I Wandered in the Streets 
by Marc Power 

A butterfly,
 
Fluttered by,
 
And, so fascinated I,
 
With its pure beauty,
 
That, mid-flit,
 

I cupped my hands,

To capture it.


Stilled in my hands,
 
It fluttered quick, and,
 

I felt something,

 
Did brush my palms,

With gentle wing.


Sweet lullabies,

Did I sing,

To calm and comfort,

Her being.

But her beauty,

I desired,

And, it could not,
Be admired,

 
Trapped inside a finger cage,

However gently it was arranged,

 
So I slowly opened up to see,

In wondrous, shimmering gossamer,

She.


And I saw, she partly be,

Born butterfly and part faerie,

For a moment she gazed at me,

In scintillating reverie,

And a sparkling I could see,

In her fine dress of filigree.


With the slightest fairy pout,

She slyly turned our roles about,

She gave a look that captured me,

She smiled and slowly, fluttered free.


That was my dream, it said to me,

That the butterfly fairies must fly free.


Hard to find and hard to hold,

Theirs is a gift of purest gold,

As you set their spirits free,

When from your hands they unfold.


If your nectar is kept sweet,

And for her, you endless yearn,

She shall make your joy complete,

When every day, she does return.


The moral, here told

Clear and true,

What you capture,

Captures you.