by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I have dropped
most moments
onto the darkened sand,
except for a few
that I have held in my hand—
like a small child
holds your hand—
too tightly.
There I go, in secret,
into the darkened cloak
of the Great Purple Hairstreak,
getting lost among
the bright blue and yellow jewels
at the outer edge
of her wings.
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