In the autumn, their kiss would come apart and fly away as a golden butterfly, into the amber trees, lining the long country road.
In the winter, their kiss would bare another butterfly, one of plae blue. One that drifts sadly to sleep in the snow.
In the summer, from that kiss, would be born a butterfly of pure white, one destined to blend in with the jasmine, singing in the warm night.
In the spring was born another, one of the most vibrant red, one that would follow the water all the way out to the ocean.