Poor Butterfly

Seen from a distance, or perhaps glimpsed for a moment, her beauty is striking. If, in her youth, she had been a trifle more demure, or a little coy, she night have been called a rose. But she had never been either. She did not so much flaunt her beauty – more, she was fully aware of her charm and totally confident in herself. She did not try to impress she expected to impress, no, she didn’t expect to impress – she knew she would impress – her confidence never failed her. She strutted, convinced of her own uniqueness, through her life. So they called her Peacock.

Time, bolstered by the inviolability of her worth, has not taken away the foundation of her beauty. The line, the curve, all still survive. But now, what had been hidden and only hinted at, is in more open evidence. In another, this nakedness would have been an embarrassment both personally and to the world around her, but Peacock wears her age as she wore her youth, with supreme confidence. If it were possible, it might be said that the wisdom of age has brought her more of all she has always had in abundance.

As in her youth so in old age – she has no time for Time.