Fragile are the wings of dreams— Where each thought can float; As the petals spiraled beyond, The blue blooms rise in soft murmurs, The garden breathes both sweet and wild,
Where the insect orchestra shimmers Through echoes of laughter. We hear the wings answer back, Wrapped in summers’ forgotten light. We fade into the moments as Colors intertwine,
And circle ends where new beginnings start, A world of blooms left to sift, The days we never knew.

• Margaret Atwood