I look out in wonder
the garden stirring in spring
with fluttering wings
dancing - indecisive, curious
.
I go outside, they shy away,
but naturally, never mind my honey-coated fingers,
a nymphet lingers
and the fine net is drawn.
.
I catch only the prettiest ones
the reds, yellows, blues
- the prismatic hues,
all delicate sylphs.
.
She spells her innocent raison d'etre
with hypnotic allure.
Cradled tenderly,
I whisper her promises.
.
I know I shouldn't touch her wings,
my hands, too large, too rough,
but how can you not caress such beauty
and sinless virginity?
...
Outside, on tear streaked glass
a butterfly trembles, shivering.
Its vital colours
rubbed clear
.
raison d'être is French for 'reason for existence'
a sylph is a mythological spirit of the air, derived from the more common word nymph