Black butterfly, red earth, white flower

Against the deep forest of the magnolia

Tree, look closer, lean in, stay still:

The butterfly has spots of evening blue,

A dark shimmer scattered across midnight

And earthen brown, unfinished clay, dusty

Notes against the moving darkness of the wings,

The pale flowers, larger than dinner plates, greater

Than my head, have darker cones inside

As if they contained a tree inside their blooms

High up in the dark green expanse of ancient

Magnolia branches who have seen a segregation

And a joining, imperfectly done, of voices, bodies,

Of the coming and going of soft young mortals

Underneath, people digging deeper and deeper,

Delving into the scarlet, no ochre, no burnt

Clay of the soft, strange earth, building what

Will not last, then building over it, and moving

By so fast, so little concerned to stop, to stay,

That the dark, red, pale cannot be seen

Blending,

Abiding,

Being.

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