In a garden of green, where butterflies play,
Their colors dance in the light of the day.
You reach, you strive, to capture a wing,
But they slip through your fingers, a fleeting thing.
Like whispers on air, they flutter and flee,
Each touch a moment, a glimpse of what could be.
Your words, they echo, but never quite stay,
Like butterflies fleeting, they drift away.
So you stand in the garden, surrounded by flight,
Captivated by beauty, yet longing for light.
With each passing moment, you reach for the sky,
But the butterflies vanish, on a soft, whispered sigh.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 9:32 AM UTC
In a garden of green, where butterflies play,
Their colors dance in the light of the day.
You reach, you strive, to capture a wing,
But they slip through your fingers, a fleeting thing.
Like whispers on air, they flutter and flee,
Each touch a moment, a glimpse of what could be.
Your words, they echo, but never quite stay,
Like butterflies fleeting, they drift away.
So you stand in the garden, surrounded by flight,
Captivated by beauty, yet longing for light.
With each passing moment, you reach for the sky,
But the butterflies vanish, on a soft, whispered sigh.
Old but gold. I wrote this when I first started really getting into poetry specifically. It doesn't really have deep meaning beyond just abstractly describing the feeling of words stuck on the tip of your tongue, but it's one of my boyfriend's top three favorite poems of mine still.
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