---

gone gone gone.
those are the days behind her now.
gone like the snow. gone like the chill. gone like the watermelon that had once sat in her little enclosure.
gone. changed. reformed. renewed. reowned.

the ocean calls; a spray of salt in the wind,
gold and white sand, studded with shells of colors, colors she wonders, dreams of.
dream, little pancakes stack.
syrup and butter in an unusual place by the ocean,
reminds me when people try to read in the water.
always seemed counterproductive.
but a butterfly never seems to care for productive things.

"O trap of beauty,
you are a fiction!"
the pancake butterfly proclaimed with a shaking, tiny black arm towards the water.

"Exhausted at day’s end,
of an oven-summer."
though it didn't feel so hot here as she flutters about,
and sees nothing but sandfleas.

but the waves, they speak to her!

"blue: no other name
than azure, azure,"
aquamarine, blue, cornflower, sky-- she sees it, surely she does!
a loop in the air, a daring backflip,
and yet she feels no more beautiful,
than the waves that could pull her in.