there was a Butterfly on a velvet lavender Peony —
its petals prickled in the crisp breath of spring, sighing
just softly enough to lift Butterfly's wings,
with the ambitious hope that she would see many other gardens
and love Peony's velvet lavender petals just the same.
Peony's hope spun silky and shimmering like a spider's web;
a picture realized somewhere between imagination and wishful thinking.
how brazenly did Peony venture to forget the stickiness of those alluring threads;
a spark of amnesia that flickered too close to the cords of fate.
Peony bloomed and wilted on that hallowed ground,
while passing time pierced Peony's burgeoning faith
no summer nor winter
nor spring nor fall
would ever find Butterfly there again.