butterfly…

I believe you must love ardently – your only anguish perhaps that this is an iris and not a rose. And that here is the longest distance from there. Lightly stroking the season, you are at once, poet and poem. If you must leave – stay. But you are so full to brimming with the day, so free in spirit that I can do no more than watch as you round the corner of summer leaving behind that sweet smell of gardenia and the memory of a bluer blue than sky.

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