The butterfly lit on the end of my ring finger near the passion vine. I pulled the little lasso tight. She fluttered up to the length of her new silk leash like the loveliest of rising kites.
I sensed no panic, no fear of captivity; her buoyancy teased against the weightless tether, somehow knowing I would wine her on nectar and dine her on pollen and bed her tonight in a blanket of thistle down. I’d thought it through.
We roamed the garden planted for her, reviewing the long sprays, sampling the bright clusters. She was content to ride with folded wings, princess-like, in black and orange velvet.
Toward dusk we settled on the lawn for the night. Neither of us could eat. We went in when dampness reached my bones.
Now I will support her as long as necessary, hand on my heart. I will let her stitch my fingers together with her sticky thread and wait with her, while she slips into something else.
If only I could see the swelling of her tiny heart and hear it beat.
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