The bush, fragrant with butterflies,
the existence of which,
in this green,
always made me certain I’d come home,
It’s destruction necessary
to make passage
for the removal of big, old things
and arrival of bigger new.
What remains is whiskered silhouette.
Is that enough enticement
to draw in that which must ever dance in air?
© Julie Ayers
April 2012 – NaPoWriMo 29