Painting of a woman with a butterfly wings standing in a field of flowers

I feel the absence before I see it, the lack of buzzing vibrancy as I flit amongst the skeletal flowers. Petals, once vivid, lay shriveled and brown, their sweet nectar long dried up. My wings flutter desperately, searching for sustenance, some sign of the lush paradise now lost. The wasteland stretches before me, barren and decaying. Gusts of hot wind kick up dust devils where grassy meadows once bloomed. The sun glares harshly on cracked soil littered with papery dead husks. In the distance, I spot a single brave blossom clinging to life amidst the desolation, its pink petals discolored yet still standing tall. I dart towards it, my only hope for survival. Approaching, I detect the barest trace of fragrance, so faint compared to what came before. Perching on the tip, I unfurl my proboscis and sip, the drop of nectar barely coating my tongue. But it's enough to keep me going, a sole bright spot in this fading world. I take my fill, buzzing gratefully as the flower bends under my weight. My work done, I take again to the air, glancing back at the stoic bloom standing in defiance of the ruin surrounding it. An isolated vestige of beauty amidst decimation. Like me, it endures, patiently awaiting the rebirth we may never see. I fly onward, sustained by the memory of sweetness past and the ever-slim hope that it may come again.