I looked for you again
in the garden, as I have
each year when the light grows long
upon the grass,
remembering that moment
when you lit upon my knuckle,
your tatted wings the hue of
ripened limes,
and eyes like orchid beads,
and wondered what you were,
what passing phase—youth or age or in between—
delivered you to me,
and felt your flutters kiss my skin
before you floated out of sight,
and left me wanting more,
as miracles often do.

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