Springtime had come.
The first signs of budding redness, a wash of violent crimson, shone in the sunlight as the last pearly drops of dew shimmered wetly upon the flower’s unfurling petals. Waxy verdant leaves wrapped around its stem like a coverlet, a silky sheen of dark against light, greedily lapping up the sunlight. It stood tall, swaying only the slightest in the gentle breeze as it lifted its lushly budding cheek to the warm sunbeams.
The butterfly struggled free from its chrysalis, wiggling its way out into the skies. It spread its midnight-blue wings as it flitted across the cerulean sky, tracing arcs and loops out of nothingness. It dipped and rose like a little helicopter, sipping the sweet nectar from the flowers, and resting when it grew tired. Folding its wings into a V as it gently grazed the azure sky, it drifted close to the flower.
The butterfly observed itself in the drops of dew, complimenting itself on the stunning shades of its mysterious dark blue wings. It admired its dainty body and arched its back elegantly, coquetting at the sight of its own reflection. It longed to be the most beautiful in the land. At the sight of the flower’s vivacious redness, it felt its fragile body tremble ever so slightly with the slightest frisson of uncertainty.
“Oh, how I wish I were beautiful like the flower,” the butterfly sighed, as the dew droplets teetered and shuddered before splashing into nothingness. With nowhere to hide, it averted its envious gaze and fluttered away, soaring off into the dimming twilight, its wings brushing a gentle caress against the tumbling and coasting currents.
The flower bowed its petals at the sight of the butterfly sailing away into the sky, its wings spread perfectly in flight. “How lucky the butterfly is,” lamented the flower, “so free to come and go as it wishes.”
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