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The golden morning sun lit
bright off the gossamer wing of a bee, and I
(staring at it, perched as it was
on the outstretched leaflet of a rose)
saw gleeful worlds reflected in the glare,
a small faerie girl looking back at me
(she, too, I think,
finding distant worlds all her own to see)
until the moment was disturbed
as easily
(and lazily)
as the silence is by the hum of a bee.
