We used to scamper after them,
immersed in burnished gold of the Sun.
We used to jostle through
spanks of tall grasses
spattering our cackle
all over the verdant meadow.
One morning, George brought
some age-old nets, borrowed from his Uncle.
He told, "I know how
to catch those colorful wings,
first hold the loop high.
Then chase,
see how the nets gobble them up!"
John winked at me, quipped,
"What's new with that?
Ringo, get ready
. . . Steady!
. . . and here we Go! . . ."
Then started the mad rush
down the field, leaving
an archaic barn way behind
with George yelling "Hold
it high!", at times.
We scurried past
signposts of years
searching "colorful wings" of illusive dreams,
jostling against each other.
Nowadays, a daybreak gets tired
rather quickly.
Yesterday, daylight hours
flitted into my room
bringing along
a swarm of adorable butterflies.
They fluttered around me, a few
even landed on my stooping shoulders.
I glanced at our tarnished photograph
above the mantelpiece,
and said, Look George,
I don't have to run,
I need not "hold it high",
any more.
