From the branch of an olive tree
there hung a tiny chrysalis the color of a emerald.
Tomorrow it would be a butterfly, freed from it’s cocoon.
The tree was happy to see his chrysalis grown,
but secretly, he wanted to keep her a few more years.
“So as long as she remembers me.”
He’d shielded her from gusts,
saved her from ants,
but tomorrow she would leave
to affront alone predators and poor weather.
a fire ravaged the forest,
and the chrysalis never became a butterfly.
At dawn, the ashes cold,
the tree still stood,
but his heart was charred,
scarred by the flames, scarred by grief.
Ever since then,
when a bird alights on the tree,
the tree tells it about the chrysalis that never woke up.
He pictures her, wings spread,
flitting across a clear blue sky,
drunk on nectar and freedom,
the discreet witness to our love stories.
there are days when I don’t like you.
there are days when I know you don’t like me.
there are not days when I don’t love you.”