BUTTERCUPS

Strange things, kite strings.
Like keeping butterflies in jars.
Never to kiss the breeze.
The last of youth beckoning.
High above the buttercups.
Where the swallows fly.
And the clouds whisper,
“Onwards, child.”

© 2024 Juliette Proffitt ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE ABOVE POEM WAS WRITTEN BY AND REMAINS THE PROPERTY OF THE AUTHOR. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THE AUTHOR GRANTS PERMISSION TO SHARE UNALTERED POSTS ONLY WHEN EXPLICITLY CREDITING THEM. NO OTHER REPRODUCTIONS ARE GRANTED WITHOUT PRIOR PERMISSION.