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.