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Something So Slight...

 

think of breath made visible in chilly air.


I think of the child
who nearly managed to faint
producing short-lived ghosts from his mouth.


Speaking from experience,
there is joy to be found here
and that must be worth something.

 

What our pride owns will collapse:
even-handed time insists the world we know 
be reduced to a rumour of Atlantis.


I believe a butterfly can cross the seas.
Something so slight- a butterfly; a fairy-tale;
may survive the deluges of deep time.


Only something so slight.
Such is poetry.

◄ Nocturne Of Choice

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