She watches the butterflies
dance for her:
red and gold,
white and black
and suddenly she spies
a momentary purple,
a single strand
of a different thread
pulled through time.
It circles her head
and settles on her hand
and slowly the colour
bleeds from it
and into her,
spreading like a stain
into her fingers
into her hand and arm.
It stretches tight
across her skin
and then beyond,
into the air.
The grass and trees,
the earth and sky
adopt its hue.
And the butterfly,
as white as a snowflake,
lifts and drifts away.
