The faint movement of fluttering
-butterfly wings and curtains in spring- and all that is in between
they hold such mysterious power- freedom, versatility and yielding surrender
Our senses are arrested and we are beholden
to look, to breathe, to feel with a divine intensity and clarity
If only the freshness could stay and the stagnant disappear forever
(I always think this), But then I wonder,
without the aching need of it, would we even notice the grandeur?
We discipline ourselves to relish the moment, drinking it completely.
It means we’re standing up on tippy toes and jumping up into the air like a child
trying to touch the butterfly’s flutter
And then so quickly it’s over. So quietly the evening hours are upon us.
While reading books we sit to enjoy the billowing curtains, remembering
and we unashamedly wish for it to stay this way.
This fluttering. This majestic unassuming power.
This is the perfect awakening for which our souls patiently wait,
mirroring the journey from innocent childhood to sage reasoning in the space of a moment.
And we realize the similarities of both.