A white butterfly has died
on the uppermost leaf of our sunflower. She is delicate, translucent, surrendered.
She has a beloved, he is fluttering around her, nudging,
pressing to awake, a desperate hope.
Or is he bullying her, in her last moments?
I long for the first to be true.
I see a third butterfly arrive, wondrous,
she is gently caressing and calling
for her friend to loosen, release, renew.
I watch them fly away together to freedom.
They are a hushed trinity
who whisper of letting go,
of transformation, of resurrection.
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