It was as if she were a blue angel, at the edge of a green, grassy meadow.
The wildflowers were all in bloom; so much to entice the girl in the cornflower dress,
eyes always looking everywhere at once.
She was one to keep company with a universe of wild, growing things, all tangled up
to her knees.
I loved that about her; I loved her need for all that fresh, open space;
the daisies and dandelions, the honeysuckle and climbing vines, wistfully at work in her heart.
It was enough for her mother to watch from a distance; that fair-headed child, running with the wind in her face.
She always made time to give her mother a butterfly kiss, a soft brush upon my cheek.
She kept watch on me as well; counting my steps, turning around, taking a side-long glance
to see if i were still looking.
How could I not? I had watched her from the time those little eyes first opened and looked up at
Across the meadow, our gaze would often meet, the knowing of so many things, and so
many things left unsaid.
She was my blue angel, at the edge of a grassy meadow, a little girl in a cornflower blue dress.
The wildflowers are all in bloom again: I make bouquets of them; and always there are dandelions and daisies,
touched by the kiss of a passing butterfly.
A new day dawns and the mist in my eyes clears; like the dew, it evaporates into the morning haze.
My granddaughters are now at play in the meadow, clutching sprigs of clover in their hands.
They too, give butterfly kisses beneath a cornflower sky.
We are kindred spirits,
the butterflies and i.
There is the floating, and the fluttering, the hovering in one place; and there is the meadow, a field of grasses that quiver in the wind, and little bitty caterpillars who must learn the lessons of crawling.
Change is a sacred art; butterflies must fly; the kisses are the keepsake for the journey.