the lepidopterist at rest

this post is alternately titled, "where can i get me some hyacinth shoes?"

presumably, butterflies don't read. and it follows that most don't blog, so. if you know any, please tell them that this summer, it would be wise to stay light of wing, so to speak. sleep with one eye open. lock your cocoon. flit, don't sit.

in other words, float away, you wee fairies! she wakes at dawn:

this one, on the other hand, poses less of a threat:
although, let's give her some props. she can totally sit up unassisted until she falls over. which is really hard to do when your entire body is made of cheeks: elbow cheeks, foot cheeks, neck cheeks, belly cheeks, very cheeky thighs and, of course, biscuit and face cheeks.

before you feel too sorry for the butterflies, you should know that Little was duly humbled at the arboretum on saturday when she was nearly eaten by this "peacot."

or so she thought. what really happened was that it lulled us into passivity by patiently sitting for photographs, then opened its pin-cushion head wide enough to swallow my baby and screamed for the suffering of motherless children, terror on the high seas, and man's inhumanity to man. it was more than startling: we all died a little inside. then we speed-walked to the mall for an orange julius.*

and now, [part of] a poem. about peacocks, because i feel like it.

from Fantasy
by Gwendolyn Bennett

I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night
Where you were the dusk-eyed queen,
and there in the pallor of moon-veiled light
The loveliest things were seen ...

A slim-necked peacock sauntered there
In a garden of lavender hues,
And you were strange with your purple hair
As you sat in your amethyst chair
With your feet in your hyacinth shoes ...

*but really we drove. pretty fast.