invitation to the reader
sees me, breathes me, holds me, forms and unforms me. My body, the tiny scraps of breaking wings, will nourish the earth-drenched roots, but in the moment I fly, flutter through the spaces cut out in space by this tree, and celebrate, dance, glory in what I am reflecting and born from and born for: this moment of Treeness called butterfly. I’ll write as the butterfly flies, falling on its brief and terrible journey, catching a wing and tearing those delicate feathers of color, time eating it up faster than it can fly, falling. I’ll write for the butterfly and for love and impossibility.
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