That butterfly

She flew into my garden one day and lit upon a magnolia just to my left. With her small glorious voice she said to me: ” I’ve conquered my demons and now wear my scars as wings”

She is beautiful, luminous, and precious, as she drifts through the air, weightless;  carried by something gentler than wind.

Gently she finds the right spot, then settles upon dew covered petals to sip their sweetness.

There is a quiet intelligence to her, a soft curiosity in the way she moves, as if she belongs not only to this world, but to something just beyond it.
Her wings,so delicate, so intricately painted, are graceful like a miracle in motion. Every color, every pattern, this butterfly is perfection

Thinking on it, perhaps that is what makes her so rare.

I find myself wishing for the time, the chance to care for such a creature: to protect her, to keep her safe, to honor her presence for as long as she might remain: Yet I know that butterflies are not meant to be kept, they are meant to be witnessed, viewed, and to carry our dreams and to birth the stars we see at night

Once in a lifetime, you may see one like this. And even if you can only watch as she passes through your world for a fleeting moment, it is still enough.

It is still a miracle.