Some say the butterfly is joy.
A painted jewel that sunlight can employ.
To flutter lightly through the summer air,
with patterns lifted from a dream too rare.
~
They do not speak of sorrow, ache or strain;
They only tell of sunshine after rain.
~
But look more closely when the day is done.
When dewdrops settle on the lilac petals.
As velvet shadows steams the sun.
~
The butterfly its journey is done.
It folded its wings underneath the descending sun.
The meadow hums a hymn for what's become
Remembers love that ended or begun.
~
It's the dew of the deep and quiet grief.
A teardrop falling from a silken leaf.
A miniscule translucent silent spill.
A sorrow carried by a creature still.
"Joy can still take flight, but even wings of wonder sometimes weep."
This is my song, to my everlasting growth, and promise to keep to keep going. Just like the butterflies in shine or rain.