Mimosa, Yellow Fragrant Tree, blooming in January
Oh my January butterfly;
yellow bloom caresses
aroused tip of a golden dawn light–
your paper wings tremble
over fragrant pitched trees shimmer
caught on an oil canvas,
and your words dive
Steven Kenny The Butterfly _ninto the opiate ink of the sweet mimosa yellow sun….

Oh, my yellow bud butterfly
I see hidden in the yellow yarrow bosoms tempera fields,
squared jade suit following ghastly
your flaming flutter wavy hunts to nectar mellow….
Butterfly Trapped in Amberaerosol sprayed pine air-freshener
paints tall cypresses breeze glowing dimmer,
oh, my yellow memory arrow,
I lost you
on the sapping scaled tree skin resin
and now you are trapped in the amber coffin blob
yellowing yellow amber early pollen wind;
Aber resine dropsnow gasping frozen secret
drowned in the camphor selfless sphinx
–engraved in a liver agony–
and turning bitter spilled spleen
into a lemon drop face of an endless, savor sea




Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.


Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other—
And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.” T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding (http://allspirit.co.uk/gidding.html)


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