Its wings open like blue doors
then close like the eyes of birds.
Groundbound in lakeside gravel
in this early summer fog.
 
Oh to live in such a place as this
an Elysian wonderland of trees
that whisper to you their names,
the flowers have wings.
 
They give themselves to people
sometimes, like tigerlilies in June 
and with tastebuds on their toes
enjoyment is reciprocal.
 
Oh mariposa, delicate traveler
this must be some kind of story.
  
When I sit down later to write
it will be you, dreaming, who lands
with the keystroke.