There’s a meadow near my house that has been throbbing with extravagant beauty lately:

Hundreds of butterflies have been dancing there for the past couple of weeks. These Eastern Tiger Swallowtails live only a month and I fear that the meadow will be mown any day now. I’m compelled to stop my car on the way home from work every day to stand knee-deep in the itchy grass, holding my breath in silent witness to their ecstatic, ephemeral ballet:

The butterfly counts not months, but moments, and has time enough. – Rabindranath Tagore

Visit to the Hermit Chui

Moss covered paths between scarlet peonies
Pale jade mountains fill your rustic windows.
I envy you, drunk with flowers
Butterflies swirling in your dreams.

Qian Qi

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