A fluttering

This summer hangs, hazy and lazy as a nap on Sunday in which you awaken dizzy blushing with heat. Not so much sticky as humid. Uncomfortable hours spent finding the coolest spot on the pillow. Hours tick by painfully slow without an end in sight. Change comes slowly, so slowly this summer. 
Do remember a time when you did not feel you needed the answers? 
Do you remember moments when the next thing coming was as clear as a bell on a Autumn morning?
Or the sleep that lulls you gently and allows you to sleep through the night even with the crickets singing? 
I do not feel these things so often.
And I fear, at times, this means adulthood has swallowed me whole. 
But I have my tools to fight this:
A deep appreciation for the small things.
A longing for connection.
A love of color. 
Most importantly a way with words. A shape created by my imagination and spilled out to you. 
I write to keep the jaws of grown-up-ness at bay. 
And in the tiny words fluttering onto my keyboard, a thousand butterflies take off. In them Summers past live on through me. I fly away fast and free from the hardness that comes from not remembering that I have wings. 
Childhood, and all it’s delicate flight, is not so far away as it feels.
And though the change is slow, it comes, inch by inch.
A chryisillis.

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