This year the butterflies will return,
Summer-soft and warm,
Their enchanting transience
Lightness and intensity in exquisite combination.
In downy, paper-thin gowns
They’ll brush the air and dance prettily,
Teasing, captivating, elusive –
‘For one season only’.
We forget, of course, that they are not the same butterflies.
Momentarily eternal and fresh with new life,
They are orphans too,
The tattered children of the dead year.
Yet it is hope, not time, which is their gift,
They choose life over memory, life over regret.
And so in summer’s fleeting embrace,
They will dance on regardless.
But let’s not rush things;
This year the butterflies will return,
And tomorrow will be.
Today there are snowflakes to attend to.
Vicki Watson © 2014
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
This year the butterflies will return,
Summer-soft and warm,
Their enchanting transience
Lightness and intensity in exquisite combination.
In downy, paper-thin gowns
They’ll brush the air and dance prettily,
Teasing, captivating, elusive –
‘For one season only’.
We forget, of course, that they are not the same butterflies.
Momentarily eternal and fresh with new life,
They are orphans too,
The tattered children of the dead year.
Yet it is hope, not time, which is their gift,
They choose life over memory, life over regret.
And so in summer’s fleeting embrace,
They will dance on regardless.
But let’s not rush things;
This year the butterflies will return,
And tomorrow will be.
Today there are snowflakes to attend to.
Vicki Watson © 2014
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