Love is a butterfly,
made for treasure. And the hunt
your eyes were enlisted in at birth
never ends, never ceases gobbling
bugs, flowers and dirt. Getting
our grubby fingers so near
the caterpillar it squirts.
We do not grasp, even touch, but
such mystery is in us, we do not
mind. Just the sight of this long
fat bug going wriggling up some
stem, some leaf. We will wait
to see, and find out
what it finds.
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