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Bougainville hues in choppy flight
across the yawning expanse
of the patient heavens.

Silly crayon patterns strewn aboard
silky wings too delicate for living
in an impatient world.

Rocking on a hinged self, on flowers
laughing in the sun, it uncertainly
seeks life-giving nectar.

A few weeks of life and then it is done,
its gossamer wings must pay
the price of its fragile form.

Ephemera for angels through
idle afternoons in Eden, a
toy too perfect for play.

The butterfly: an aberration of nature
whose very perfection is
the imperfect texture of God’s day!

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