Butterfly
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Butterfly
Butterfly sweet,
lovely wings of gossamer gold.
Stretch your tips to the stars,
as that is the reality of freedom.
Glide for hours above the clouds,
created by the soft fog of morning,
to find your balance and place,
in the world.
Do what you need to do,
to be all that you need to be.
I miss the way you spoke,
the way you whispered secrets to my heart.
You made me young again,
when others made me old before my time.
I wish you would come home.
Where are you "rainbow-colors" on air?
Where is it that you go in the day,
and where do you end up in the night?
Come home, daughter.
Come home,
Selah.
Come home.
Copyright © Ann Foster | Year Posted 2022
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