A shimmer in the heavy heat,
A rhythm felt in wings, not feet.
From a shrine of silk and sleeping dust,
To a world of bloom and golden rust.
They are the breath of a summer day,
Painting paths through the garden spray.
With mosaic patterns, thin as light,
They dance a frantic, frail delight.
No longer bound to the crawling earth,
They celebrate a second birth,
A fleeting pulse, a velvet grace,
Lost within the sun’s embrace.
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 9:33 PM UTC
A shimmer in the heavy heat,
A rhythm felt in wings, not feet.
From a shrine of silk and sleeping dust,
To a world of bloom and golden rust.
They are the breath of a summer day,
Painting paths through the garden spray.
With mosaic patterns, thin as light,
They dance a frantic, frail delight.
No longer bound to the crawling earth,
They celebrate a second birth,
A fleeting pulse, a velvet grace,
Lost within the sun’s embrace.
I've always loved butterflies
