Watching Butterflies

Watching Butterflies

The sun leans low across the garden,

shadows stretch and yawn.

A gentle wind stirs leaves,

soft whispers through branches and flowers.

I sit quietly on the old wooden bench,

watching butterflies drift,

orange, blue, white.

They float without hurry,

pause on blooms,

then rise again,

chasing the sky.

I hold my breath,

not to disturb their fragile dance,

and feel calm seep into my bones.

Time thins,

the world shrinks to petals and flight,

all beauty borrowed,

meant for a moment.

The sun dips lower,

but the butterflies linger,

and I carry their quiet freedom,

long after they vanish.