What is left behind when love is gone?

A torn insect shell, forsaken by the beauty that fled so fast?

The petal of a flower, precariously bent and dripping bitter dew?

A pine cone with rough edges and a thorny hide?

Butterflies are fickle when the seasons change,

Dew dries and flowers rise to meet the morning sun,

And pine cones, finding nourishment in warm soil,

Grow many branches with time and rise to greet the sky,

As each New Year comes around, they live on, and on, and on…