Aug 1
wings in the rain
butterflies do not war with weather, they fold into themselves, hide color beneath leaf and bark, and let the sky speak its storm.
she watches them, her rest mistaken for surrender, yet this stillness is a temple, where softness sharpens quietly, where her wings remember sunlight.
when the clouds unfasten, she will rise, not in spite of the rain, but because of the waiting, carrying every drop that fell, as shimmer, not as weight.
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