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by Nancy Clark
A lesser insect I'd have brushed away
But not this stately yellow butterfly
With flexing wings outlined and veined in black.
He lit upon my golf ball, which gleamed white
Against the green, and held there like a tiny
Lunar lander setting slender legs
Upon the dimpled surface. Quite deceived,
Beguiled by shine, he stayed, expecting nectar
Finding just a barren, foreign place
Like sun-kissed desert plain or sparkling ice.
No comfort there, his instinct erred, he flew
To seek a place befitting butterflies.

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