#97

The Butterfly.

She hovered on dainty flowers.

In a perpetual hurry.

Flitting by floral patterns  

She scurried.

The flowers longed for her

But she cared little.

All vying for her attention

while she played them like a  fiddle.

The days were numbered 

And she had to touch the sky.

She was just a tiny butterfly.

But every risk was worth the try.

It seemed a herculean task,

Till she actually spread out her wings to fly.