The monarch butterfly was a-caper upon a carol of daffodils; daffodils singing out their colours, daffodils dancing out their blues. Its wings opened as a picture book, one of childhood days, fluttering as pages turned by a youthful hand. My gaze formed a ribbon, one of velvet light, from my heart to this insect of purest delight. If a life is to be measured in motes of joy, not in years, then am I not already the elder of so many peers? Perhaps. Perhaps. It is the artist's way, is it not, to see, to feel, to fold themselves into mother nature?
A cashmere butterfly alighted upon a bloom, a bloom of dollar roundness and of dollar-hue. Above it shone a daytime moon, for the sun though flambeaux bright was quite out of sight: cosseted, cosy, ensconced within a fresh wash of cloud. And, then in greatest number, as if each were summoned by a different blossom, a flock fluttered down. Upon that green disc, they were nature’s living crown. There was something so transporting in the expanse of that idle post-noon: a dream, a wish most pleasant, a sauntering sense of wonder. And so it was with blithest serenity that the advancing lit hours bowed to starlight’s entreaty.
The pulse of her tender wings, the butterfly, and my heart-beat were as one - solemn and lamenting. Each of us were near-silent. Each of us were near-frozen. Each of us were alone and together in the humid moment; for the air was bloated, heavy and close. It was a gloomy saturation. Lady light, it seemed, had forgotten her warm-lit songs and instead found the skin in cool bluish rays. Even the floral scent was sunken, though I cannot fathom how. In all of this, as companion and barometer, sat the butterfly. What I felt, she felt it too, those paper-wings cannot lie.
Butterfly of heartbeat flutter, of summery-song and sweet-memories' serenade, enjoy these days of heady wonder and pay no mind to winters bite.
Then came a bouquet of butterflies, wings of bright tempest scales, that rained unseen to blossoms sprung.
Black veins upon butterfly wings are the perfect hue to accompany such sunny golds.
A marriage of browns upon velvet wings gives the butterfly safe harbour in my fondest memories.
In aromatic spring air comes the dance of the white butterfly.
The butterfly sat upon her finger with wings of black and gold, the colours blending and swirling as playful waves upon night sands.
If ever there was magic powder, it was that iridescent glow of the butterfly wings. It casts a spell on these eyes so that my soul is brought into the moment with a fullness. I feel as if my thoughts were more tuned in somehow, as if I were a radio that's found a frequency that is both more calm and more intense all at once. That instant of seeing those petal-wings brings a serenity that holds me as if in some universal camera flash.
The butterfly, flower of the sky, dances by in a whirl of colour. She is born to fly from her cocoon, to bring a beauty so delicate into the warming summer air. As sweet as the nectar she seeks, she raises her wings as an organic clock, each flutter a moment until her time of rest.
The butterfly is a rose on a beach; she is the life amid so much sky. She swims into the air, letting it eddy beneath her wings, curling in the sweetest of swirls. I watch her pass, fast despite her erratic path, choosing her direction by a silent serenade of the blooms.
My hope, it sat upon a butterfly of painted wing, drinking deeply of the aroma of flowers. And of its steed, she flew on in bonny fashion, rising and falling only to rise again; without insulation for the winter, nor experience of icy blasts. My hope and her were blessed companions, for one cannot sense the cold and the other requires recovery without it.