Of Wings and Heartbreak

Her wings yet moist she rests on a leaf taking in
the warmth of the sun as she silently waits for
her wings to dry.
For these delicate wisps of fine lines and veins
flutter and flutter not knowing why.
She has waited for this moment which she knew
nothing of until she emerged from a beautifully
dark world where there was no sunlight.
She heard no sound, knew nothing of its existence
until she heard her wings steaming from the heat
of the sun.
But she knows not of this sound only that it is,
it is her but she doesn't know that she has wings,
or that flying is her life and her death.
She has completed this phase and her wings have
led her to the most aching of flowers.
She can feel the flowers as if they have lit upon
her and the breeze brushes her with touch.
She had never been touched in this way, for in her
dark world there was no touch and darkness is but
a silent longing for nothing.
She ballets to a meadow of flowers and with instinct
sips in a voice of nectar but she has no voice.
She but flutters among the goldenrod near the hum
of light where the water ripples, and the sun is
sinking into the heart of silence.
She knew nothing of sleep, she had slept long not
knowing of light, sound, touch, wings, of hunger,
of freedom, of death.
And fluttering into a lazy summer evening her wings
spread wide.....we hear the cry of the butterfly.

This is the sound of heartbreak.

Carol Brown ©



Credit for this extraordinary photograph goes to Karen Tweedy-Holmes ©