The bougainvillea tried to compensate
For its tiny flowers, sedate and white,
It made of its leaflets a frothing fountain
Crimsoning my walls in the summer sun;
Trying its hardest to attract
Insects with its colored bracts.
But the butterfly couldn’t be fooled, he knew
Which flowers were richest in honey-dew!
My garden was the stage for his choreographed flight,
As his wings patterned the air with colored light–
Making of his day’s work a dance of delight
And I was left, lazily wondering–
Whether the soft shimmer of the butterfly’s wing
Was superior to the bougainvillea’s gaudy flowering!