by Adegboyega Kayowa

Tired of watching bees skim by
pressing petals flat against his palms

my brother points to the butterfly.
The garden is still, so he lifts his hand

his fingers stretch toward the air.
The butterfly, orange but fading

hovers a moment, then drifts down
wings folding, unfolding.

He braces himself as it lands on his palm.
He holds still, as he’s learned

how to be fragile.
He had spent years pulling back.

flinching from … running from embraces.
But here he is now, his hand steady

the butterfly’s wings opening wider.

Image by arbid10 from Pixabay