On
perfect days of brilliant sun
and huge
cotton clouds
we think
of jeweled wings
fluttering
on a breathless breeze
lighting
on the countless colours
that
bloom before the eyes
Yet, when
the clouds turn
and dim
the sun
with
their rolling dark
why do we
never wonder
what the
butterflies do when it rains
Clinging
to a stalk
wings
pressed tight together
as watery
globes
batter
and spatter
back and
forth
straining
strength
dripping,
drooping
jewel
dust smeared and running
crawling,
climbing
towards
the promise of the sun
of
lighter wings
a return
to their
place
in our
perfect dreams
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