by Sigrid K., 17
A yellow butterfly flew across my room.
She hovered over a vast leaf on my plant,
arched body smooth like soft silk,
Like the slope of a mountain blossoming.
Her wings are paper like,
fragile like dried leaves
that will not rise from their fall.
She fluttered towards me,
but every movement was a strain.
Was this an entreaty, I asked myself,
For butterflies do not belong
Under low ceilings.
I raise my eyes to meet hers,
And I remember her eggs on the leaf.
I open my window
And I let her go.
McLean, Virginia
Bridge Ink 