Silken pinions; flutter, float and drift, hundreds-strong
In and out; they waft and weave—without a care;
Colourful confetti, translated tenderly on springtime air
As though the breeze itself understands their fragility and breathes them into flight.
Orange and black; blue and grey, green
and white; eternally dyed
A colour or two with neutral tones and patterns—
Shapes smattered across feathery wings; wings shaped like uneven hearts
Hinged; moving together and drifting apart.
Soothing; beauty is an air ballet where everything has timing and placement;
I sip my tea and sigh. Nothing can replace this time—this moment.
I do not know how butterflies communicate, but perhaps
Their hues, tints, and dyes; ballet-like movements and gentle ways,
Say what words cannot...
It is a picture, is it not?
Photo by Karina Vorozheeva