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fadingthe butterflies
are drifting –
as are stolen winter wings
were fated by a snowflake
left to die

northern
their progression
higher mountains
richer wines
tho journeyed now
to blossoms not quite bloomed

will doom the flame
from flaring –
the moth to circling
round about
in seasons
without home

who shall say
of these to loss
we might have saved them when
before we gave of lives
we didn’t know

gathered
as a blue bouquet
in treetops of the clouds
swimming out
beyond the evening fog

folded
 to a hurried prayer
spoke before the sun
left to grieve
our souls –
another dawn

. . .