Tis the season of coffee and books in the garden. Tis the season of cabbage and sulphur butterflies, unmarked and unremarkable when compared with the splashy swallowtails and monarchs that will come later in summer. But still, the little pale green and yellow butterflies flit and flutter, unencumbered and free. They inspire one to enjoy flowers and sunshine, a sip of something sweet.
Tis the season for bees to buzz, to dip into the purple trumpets of salvia, the yellow buttercups of rue, the diminutive white daisies of feverfew. Tis the season of birdsong trills and the putter of private prop planes on Saturday jaunts from the nearby one-runway airport.
The sky is blue. Midday sunlight is blinding bright on the ivory paper I write on. The sun is warm on my pale winter skin. A hint-of-summer breeze lifts the edge of my flowery skirt.
I’ve got my afternoon coffee, my book of short stories, the butterflies and the bees, and for the first time in months, nothing I have to do today but enjoy it.
Butterfly Mind 