Butterfly

Artist’s Note

I see a white butterfly now. That’s definitely a butterfly.
Avoiding the glare, those things that come into my dimly open eyes.
It’s definitely a bunch of white butterflies.
That day long ago my father put me on his shoulder.
We walked down a country road in full bloom of dandelions.
That was the first time I saw a white butterfly.
The butterfly flew over and sat on my father’s head.
Amid the whistling sound of my father and the cool wind brushing my cheeks,
the butterfly gently folded and unfolded its white wings.
I fell in love with the movement, holding my breath to keep the butterfly from flying.
Today the butterfly came again.
The fear that is about to disappear is no different from then and now.