In the garden you'd sit
like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
Fuzzy silence settled over you
as the orchids swayed in the breeze
and the sun warmed you
as love never did.
One day you soared outwards
marvelling at your own speed
and the rich redness of your wings.
But blackness seemed better.
So you smeared yourself with dirt
until you were as smothered and blinded
as a maggot buried in dung.
You kept trying to fly. The weight
of earth on your wings was too much.
You stuttered, tumbled.
Desperate, you broke into the garden
to find it a graveyard: covered in frost.
The last moment of your life
became the best.
You didn't need the sun
to know someone loved you
or silence to save the world.
Now we plant orchids where you died
and watch them sway in the breeze.
Forever safe in your walled garden
you put pencil to paper
giving immortality to short-lived wonders
like sunlight, like the flight of a butterfly.
