I trace the map of longing
etched in diaphanous wings—
veins like gilded rivers,
carrying the weight of vanished storms.
A single flake of dawn
settles on a feather-thin wing,
melting into the pastel haze
of early morning’s breath.
It drapes itself over thorns,
a stained-glass veil across jagged spines,
turning each sharp edge
into a prism of possibility.
In the cathedral of dusk,
the butterfly alights on a smoldering ember,
its wings unfurling like slow petals
from the heart of a dying fire.
Each beat is a brushstroke—
a scatter of molten gold
against the charcoal sky,
a constellation born from ash.
It hovers above a broken mirror,
catching shards of fractured light
and refracting them as universes—
tiny galaxies spun from fragility.
There is no audience for this miracle,
only the silent hush of stars
leaning in to witness
the geometry of resilience.
And as it rises—
a faint silhouette against infinite blue—
its wings carve a window
through sorrow, sunlight flooding in.
Author’s Note:
Feeling blue? Take a deep breath and look for the light. It will come to you if you search. This is based on my experiences finding the good in the bad.
Penumbra Poet | 16 | Utah, USA | @penumbrapoet on TikTok
