I held the white butterfly on my palm,
Seeking to make it free,
To bask in the sunlight and wave its wings
In the sunlight far from me.
But as I stood, my fingers outstretched,
The butterfly merely stayed,
Resting gentle on my hand
Soft and delicately made.
It seemed to not wish to move,
And in that moment forever stay;
Until I blew on its milk white wings
And watched the butterfly float away.
There’s not much to say – I let a butterfly free after it got stuck in my house.