The colours dance in a summer garden,
Against a fragile, pale blue sky.
Into that tapestry,
The Weaver has painted wing upon wing
Of mathematical miracle,
As boundless as the day is young.
But the wing of one butterfly,
Has been shattered by the Earth.
Broken, uneven, spoilt.
Unable to fly here alone,
She folds, and rises on His wings,
Lives on in Him tomorrow.