The lil’ butterfly hopped from flower to flower, caressing each pretty petal with her delicate cool feet. A little stroke, bending her knees, a little push, and off to the next. From red to purple, from green to blue, and from there to white, and orange and night bright. She knew not where she was going; she believed.
Not knowing if the belief was knowledge, or information fed from an ignorant past. Judging not whether each leap took her further, or it took her backward, or maintained her status quo.
Here and there, a pretty potted flower caught her eye. And she hopped yonder. Once in a while to be trapped in their beauty, and at other times, to be betrayed. The lull of the pull was always so comfortable, and also sinisterly familiar.The revival, painful, resisting the pull of fresh air. Ouch.
Her mind continued to pillage her, trying to convince her that the pretty potted flower was part of her flower-path. Trying to prevail over her belief and her heart.
She wanted to fight the powers of that instrument of thought, reaching out to the sun-shine and blades of grass for help, feeling the wind caressing her face, and the newly wet mud tasting her feet. Sometimes, grace showed her the way, but most times, the fertilizer’s glow realised.
Oh, wish the sun’s glow and the wind’s plough, the snow’s dance and the rain’s lance would show her the way.
Sigh. Whither now?
Om shanti.
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