A red admiral escaped

I don’t read poetry
if it adds little
but pretentious thoughts.
A swallow’s winter migration
is lessened described in words
if the direction can be seen;
instinct recognised
by a nod.

The bloom of an orchid
is better in the touch,
hand coaxing the scent,
than in an attempt to rewrite.
It’s a raw experience
in the “now” to live it;
there’s no reason
to reshape this as an art-
form flower.

Our conversations remain
more memorable
than dictionary stanzas,
they’re always a few pages
backdated;
phrases that won’t
be pinned down
as a collector’s prize butterflies.