The cocoons break open.
The butterflies sit outside,
drying their wings of teal and black
with white dots of various sizes,
like accidental spray paint
on a five year old’s first attempt.
They will soon take flight,
you can feel that,
in the pit of your stomach,
like the micro-second when
you know the cup’s slipped out of your hand
and you cannot stop the china
from hitting the wooden floor,
dark brown and burnt sienna
blur into a muddy background
as the moment pauses.
You can hear your heart throbbing.
Time is a raindrop, suspended,
between the now and the never.