Butterfly Heart

June 29, 2011
By TheRainbowWanderer BRONZE, Ann Arbor, Michigan
TheRainbowWanderer BRONZE, Ann Arbor, Michigan
2 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
"The scientific theory I like best is that the rings of Saturn are composed entirely of lost airline luggage." -Mark Russel

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus." -Hogwarts motto


Swiftly I flit among the brightly colored flowers, each an idea, every one equally appealing. This is how summer should always be, I think: warm, the sun shining on my back, fragrant, the scent of flowers brushing past my nose...
Slowly I open my eyes to see the blurry and muted pastel colors of a quilt. A breath of wind tousles my already mussed hair. Here I lie, beneath the trees, every summer.
I roll onto my back, stretching lazily, and meet the gaze of the summer maple leaves. No longer the eager innocence of spring and not yet the celebration of autumn, they are clad in solemn joy.
Sitting up, I look down the hill to a field where children play. Then to the nearby bench where a young couple sit, oblivious of my smiling eyes. He strokes back her copper hair, saying something I can’t hear. She laughs and pulls him over to kiss her. I look away.
I glance down at the sun speckled journal beside me, the pen by it bearing witness for my ink-stained hands. Even as I watch, a gentle breeze comes gliding to ruffle and smooth the ivory pages and open the little book to a blank slate.
I hold out my hand to the kind summer wind, and a butterfly lands there, brightly colored, rejoicing in its seasonal life. This is all it knows.

The wind changes, and with it goes the butterfly. The festivity of the leaves begins again, while the two lovers remain on their bench, talking quietly. The children on the field zip up their jackets and play on.
Taking my time, I stand. I pick up the pen and journal. I fold up the quilt.
We don’t stay long, we of butterfly heart. We’re here one day and there the next, flitting from blossom to blossom, bloom to bloom.
I pass the lovers and smile at them as I go. I wave to the children, but they pay me little heed, caught up in their play as they are. They won’t miss me, though they’ll rejoice at my return. It’s good that way.
As I leave the park, I throw the quilt over my shoulders as a cloak, and its colors change from gentle to strong. Time for another guise. When summer returns, I’ll come back with the butterflies.


The author's comments:
I wrote a poem once containing the phrase "butterfly heart", and felt inspired to write a short piece centering around it.

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