The Butterfly

My grandmother, who is visiting on this special occasion,
teaches me the name of a rose in
Another language. 
A sunny, partly cloudy day
In the medium-sized backyard of my house.
A black and orange winged butterfly lands on
one of my mother’s daisies nearby.
The monarch, as it is called, strongly displaying
Its intricately veined wings in our presence.
We continue to peer over at the insect –
It does not come and go in hasty imperfection,
But lives to linger in comparison to its
Surroundings, so bright and cherished by
Young and old alike.
My mother joins us, momentarily,
And we gaze in awe at the
Majestic insect
As it bounces and weaves
toward the flowers of various clusters and hues.
Then, the butterfly leaves, while my grandmother, mother, and I watch.
While the butterfly lives a short, sweet and colorful life,
The boy at his age is always coming,
Never going, and like the rose,
Is in constant need of pruning,
By the wise and wonderful women
With whom he grows up toward manhood.
For the time being, at least,
Nature’s instincts remain…
With the Monarch…