In his poem, Verses on a Butterfly, Joseph Wharton calls butterflies "Nature's completest miniature divine."

In another poem entitled The Way Of The Coventicle Of The Trees, Hayden Carruth writes, "I have looked at them out the window / So intently and persistently that always / My who-I-am has gone out among them / Where the fluttering ideas beckon."

And Jorie Graham writes, in Salmon, "What is the light
at the end of the day, deep, reddish-gold, bathing the walls,
the corridors, light that is no longer light, no longer clarifies,
illuminates, antique, freed from the body of
that air that carries it. What is it
for the space of time
where it is useless, merely
beautiful?"

Perfection. This is why I need to write again.