As I sat at a table on the patio waiting for my morning coffee to cool, a butterfly lighted on my sleeve.
I looked down. Very slowly the butterfly’s wings opened and closed. The small creature seemed perfect, freshly made.
I remembered something I had read. Most butterflies live for about one month.
Every butterfly is new.
I looked closely at my visitor. I marveled at the filigree wings, as delicate as dreams made real. I could see the tiny eyes. I was careful not to move my arm. I didn’t want it to leave.
A butterfly, I mused, in its short life dances with the wind, always searching.
As this one approached me, what did it see?
A patchwork of many colors?
An immense, undefinable mass looming like an Everest?
An unexplored planet, in an inexplicable orbit, flitting like itself through an ever-changing universe–a universe that beckons infinitely to newly born eyes?
A strange flower?
The butterfly on my sleeve was small, bright and new.
At once a revelation came to me.
To a butterfly, I too am new.