The spices were fresh picked
From the garden this morning
And having been washed and dried
Now lay in the summer sunshine
To dry
As I finished wiping my hands
On my apron
I saw the butterfly
Land gently
Upon the spiced orange slices
Which would soon fill
Sachet bags
To sweeten my wardrobe
Throughout the fall months
For a moment I stood transfixed
Watching as the butterfly sat
And I knew
At that moment
That my task
Had been deemed good
Not just good enough
By my forebears

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