They arrive like butterflies

Wings beating like a delicate breath

Whispering in the meadow

Rising and falling in spasms

On warm breezes of fluidity 

with a grace all their own.


There can be sparks

And there can be muses

The sparks are sought after

through the diligence of labor

But those muses flow in and out

Spontaneous, beautiful and free

Not to be collected, captured 

and placed into jars of solitary 


Where the magic always escapes.

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