THE BUTTERFLY

 My net’s the pen; it’s always been.
There’s childlike glee when I try
And finally catch the perfect word,
Like once I caught a butterfly.

A pretty sight or lyrical sound—

Give chase to that elusive prize!
Such is my goal when I write verse;
The right words dance before my eyes.

And still it is as always was;
That butterfly in my mind’s eye,
That perfect sound that wants to sing,
Some times will fade in distant sky.

And tell me, Mother, like you did

That gentle is as always was—
Catch, admire, and set it free;
Keep nothing for a selfish cause.

                                    --Monty Wheeler