Monarchs,  
     great blue swallowtails, 
                     and Chinese peacocks,  
      painted ladies, 
               Isabellas,  
                      chestnut tigers,  
     golden birdwings, 
                         fritillaries,  
                                   silver-studded blues, 
               and Queens of Spain,  
        papilios,   
                and marbled whites,  
            red admirals,
   Adonis blues;
     and even purple emperors: 
            
butterflies —
    they flutter by the buttercups
                   with names as lovely as, 
    or nearly so, 
            the abstract paintings on
                                 their wings, and every garden 
                       sings with glories of their graceful flight
             from bud to blossom,
                              sipping nectar from the flowers –
                a summer bacchanal
                    to celebrate 
            their magic transformation
       into wing-ed angels 
    after crawling in the mud for half their lives
 like worms and snails, which, 
no less useful to the world, 
receive no glorious names, no soaring songs.