Flapping our wings in Oz

Basking in the afternoon sun
on a neighbor's porch,
a flutter catches my eye:
a butterfly,
surfing the breeze
with her zebra wings,
brushing a speck of pollen from the green hosta,
pausing to sip from a damp marigold,
kissing the cheek of St. Francis,
then off again to curtsy
to the iris, and the rose.

I wonder if she's lonely here:
I haven't seen her kind before --
perhaps she was blown off course
by some catastrophic storm;
one of many creatures
left homeless by a wild wind.

There are others of us, you know,
who don't belong --
and yet we do, and thrive,
transplanted and transformed,
flapping our zebra wings for joy in Oz,
thrilled at the sight
of all this unexpected color...