letters from nairobi

February 9, 2012, 14:22
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In the late afternoons, when the sun tucks himself underneath clay tile roofs and hides among low-hanging tree branches, shyly – that is when the butterflies come.

At first glance, they are petals, gliding and dipping on silent water currents of air, freed from the constraints of being just one of many; identical; nameless. No longer content to be mere decoration, torn away by wind (or by choice?), they are free. They are dying.

But, no – there are too many, their whiteness colliding with the darkening sky and lengthening shadows. Each petal swirls in its own pattern, rising and falling in undulating waves. They overlap, copulate, synthesize, explode. Implode.

The petals become clouds become stars. They are polka dots; illuminated, flapping wings; swans and constellations.

And then, they are gone.


2 Comments so far
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I decided that your post could also be aptly re-written into a haiku. Behold:

Butterflies have come.
White colliding with the sky.
Clouds, becoming stars.

Comment by Anthony

they come by the thousands
delicate, gossamer phantoms
they vanish–I am alone

Comment by Mari

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