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Transience
I can recall a summer day,
transient as a butterfly.
Fields full of poppies,
hazy with heat,
and pollen on the breeze.
Somewhere there is a memory
fragile and bright
that like a butterfly
captures a lifetime
in one perfect day.
And in the grass
the hoar frost
melts in winter sun.
Icy droplets drip
into frozen streams.
The world is bathed
in rosy light;
a fleeting fire
as the sun goes down
on another perfect day
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