Soft Touch

It’s not unusual on any given day to find myself rescuing butterflies, as I have concluded their tiny brains simply do not have the capacity to conquer the intricacies of spatial relations. My back porch is a sun trap, with windows giving a view of the garden while also providing shelter from the wind, and it has become a favourite spot for butterflies, blowflies, wasps and dragonflies. Only problem is, the butterflies seem to have a dickens of a job working out how to exit the porch. The garden is there, right in front of them, they can see it through the glass, but rather than move the one metre it would take to head back where they came from, they will literally flap around aimlessly for hours until I put them out of their misery, cup them gently in my hand, and give them their freedom.

Spent a couple of hours on the couch reading a book when I caught sight of one in my peripheral vision. Thinking it was just passing the window I did a double-take when I realised it was inside, quite happy to peruse the lounge room and spend some time on the couch near my feet. However it came to be flutterbying inside I’ll never know, maybe it had learned a thing or two from the blowflies who hang around waiting for that split second when you open the screen door to slip in unawares. Whatever the case, I did the usual thing, scooped it up gently and headed out the back door.

Even when granted its freedom, it seemed reluctant to go. Walking up and down my hand, its touch barely noticeable, I thought it would be eager to take flight, but not so, content instead to wander round and round the palm of my hand. I had time to note its distinctive markings, and though just your common everyday garden variety butterfly, it sported a unique design worthy of any artist’s deft brushstrokes.

Finally walking to the tip of my finger, I thought take-off was imminent, but no. It turned back to face me, proboscis seeking out every morsel of salty sweat. Was it bidding me a final farewell? Of course not, but maybe somewhere in that minute butterfly brain it was aware I had saved it from what could have been a sad end, for it would have starved had it remained in the house for long.

Another ramble round my hand, the faintest tickle, then off it went, back home to tell of its dice with death and lucky escape.

Butterfly

walks my life line

past the Mount of Venus

strokes my heart line
with the softest touch

then takes flight

from my fingertip