The Butterfly Who Stayed For Christmas
A short poetic story
Amid the crimson, emerald green, and gold, you flew. Dazzled, no doubt, by the Christmas shine. We watched, mesmerized by your terracotta flashes with berry red and velvet wings, deep as night, while you danced and whirled to the chimes through tinsel and pine, leaving an unexpected air of magic in your wake.
Silver ribbon and polar bear labels on glittering paper became your garden, and we flung another log on the fire and wondered about you.
“She can’t stay. Butterflies live outside. But she can’t go. It’s too cold.”
So we swathed the room with flowers: Blossoms clung and trailed among cinnamon and mulled wine. We shared our orange slices with you well into the dawn.
Christmas morning shone with the brightest sun seen in the valley for months. We rushed into the room, not to unwrap or indulge but to greet you. I swear I heard you sing.
“Today’s the day for her to take flight. To traverse the chill on warm beams and discover unseen freedom. To live, if only for a short time.”
So, we opened the window and saw you go, tentatively at first. You walked up and down the ledge, eyeing the day. Then, you took off, and we blessed your visit as you faded into the holly.
Bridget Webber writes articles for magazines and websites; she often ghostwrites for professionals who can’t spare the time to pen compositions. She’s written poetry eBooks and is featured in several leading publications.
