Way of the Butterfly

They flit and flutter across the lawn,
small white and large monarchs in patterns bright.
They must have been asleep until the dawn,
safely kept through the long dark of night.

They stop near lilies, drink nectar sweet,
wings of golden brown, trimmed in fragile lace.
My morning looms, His gifts glow replete,
softly they tread, not a sound, not a trace.

There are monarchs and swallowtails, we know,
so regal they skim from blooms pink and red.
In nature's brightest hues they come and go,
From out the sky, watch closely soon they've fled.

To mingle among us in cozy bowers,
Bask in august warmth, cool of September,
on gossamer wings like flying flowers.
Where do they migrate? Will they remember?