Have you ever
tasted of rose hips?
They leave
a honey-suckling
aroma on your lips..
that drips,
as if sweet nectar,
from a butterfly’s
proboscis tip.

If only I could
capture droplets
of that moment
in a flask..
with a hermetic
seal upon it
to preserve
its fragrance..
make it last.

Alas,
even inside
a vacuum,
present turns
eventually
into past.
A caterpillar
resting in
a chrysalis
eventually
undergoes her
metamorphosis..
she turns into
a butterfly
so fast.

So, by the time
the scent I savored
long ago
is finally released..
the butterfly
already would have
long since
hatched awake..
from soft embrace
of summer’s warmth
that held her..
in her embryonic
dreams.