The Butterfly and the Hail Storm

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In the morning, while the sun knew
and I was time, she drifted to me.  Blue,
floating blue cascade shimmer, she came
to me with whispers of summer still.
Quieted by her dance, I stayed as she
settled upon me, smiled with her indigo
wings, round eyes and watched me
wonder her blue deep through me.
 
And then later, on the mountain, darkness
dropped, as it does with time, sky turning,
mirroring granite below. Rain pelted, soaked,
willed itself to hail. Morning forgotten,
I drew myself closed within the gray, startled
by bolts of lightning on nearby pines.  Hunched
down, arms around knees, head bowed, hurting.
I felt the wings on my back lose their flight.
 

Butterfly Garden

The blooms dotted the green bushes in colors

only summer could dream, blends of yellow,

orange, pink, and red.  They lulled me

with their sweetness, and I hovered there

in the stillness, as butterflies descended

on to the splendid blooms.  They drifted all

around me, each one painted with her own

enchanting pattern, her own combination of colors.

They were summers snowflakes, each perfectly

different, as they drifted in the sweet breeze

of summer and floated among blooms.  Sun

pushed down with summers heaviness, and

I waited to see two butterflies that matched,

in color and pattern.  Those flowers flooded

in June colors boasted more fluttering beauty

than I could have imagined before that day, and yet

it stays with me that there were no pairs, no

connections.  They all flew alone.