A butterfly landed on my chest,
like one who settles into an old couch,
where everything has already been waiting.
There was no asking,
no promise.
Only the moment.
I, serene earth, breathed in.
And from the depth of quiet ground,
a sunflower was born.
But I did not plant it.
It came.
As forgotten names come
in the middle of a dream.
It rose slowly,
touching the sky without urgency,
its petals unfolding
in gestures that do not wish to end.
And the sunflower, light as one who knows how to leave,
lifted the butterfly,
and she flew.
The light found her wings.
And I remained,
my chest still in bloom,
my time still open,
my gesture still whole.
Some speak of other passages,
when the day grows heavier than words.
Sometimes, the butterfly lands
and all remains silent.
The ground breathes dry,
and the miracle sleeps.
Sometimes, the sunflower rushes,
grows too tall,
reaches high as if forgetting its own beginning —
and touches the sun before its time.
The wing unravels slowly,
burns, fades,
and memory takes the place of flight.
Sara, your eyes did not see,
but it was all for you.
The sunflower, the breath,
the entire garden of my chest.
Even unread,
there were verses.
Even unanswered,
there were roots.
Each petal was a poem.
Each stanza, an offering.
And if no other butterfly ever lands,
the earth remains here.
Being.
Enduring.
Living among the seeds.
Still trying to believe that love’s landing
is something that does not burn,
even after the end.