Leaves like wings

I watch the butterflies dance around the oak tree,

Fluttering in and out, with the breath of the breeze.

But if I am silent enough, If the blood stops rushing,

I can feel wind from its wings, like waves in seas.

Let it be silent, in always reminding me,

That the leaves will fall, and I am like the tree.

The flowers are long gone, now I bear fruit.

And as the branches empty, my heart follows suit.

I think back to climbing trees, my knees always scraped

but my hands became strong, holding roses and thorns.

Soon, the butterflies stop dancing, they land one last time,

Falling like leaves, but the tree never mourns.

I suppose it knows, what we would all find out.

That butterflies will be born again, it does not doubt.

But I will sit, in the dead of winter,

And long to feel the tree, this ache much like a splinter.

A dim sun rises, over mountains made of mist,

And we became cold in the rain and dark in our towers.

Until the days become long, they whisper to me,

That the butterflies are dancing again, and I finally have flowers.