Wondering
 
I sit here on an old chocolate-brown wicker rocker.
Birds, perched on telephone wires, like music notes
on a blue page of sky, sing out their compositions.
I ask myself, where do butterflies go to die?
 
Yellow, shiny buttercups polka-dot the grass.
A dragon fly strikes a pose on the edge of the pond.
A purple fluttering catches my eye--
Wings lightly closing, alighting on a petal, 
sipping nectar--
The delicate flash of color, like a feather, is
carried on a breath of air, and continues its journey.
But...
Where do butterflied go to die?

Monique Buchberger's Questions:

1.  Do the questions work?

2.  Is the imagery rich enough?

3.  What can I improve?

4.  What message does the reader get from this poem?