Close

broken-wing butterfly

I worry hope will crush me, the way love has so many times before.

Are they so different, hope and love? O & E in the same place, half of the other in each word.

Both swimming in unknowns.

I’ve been through the big changes. These ones should seem easier in comparison, I should be more prepared, but they don’t and I’m not.

Sometimes I feel like a broken-wing butterfly, clinging to a window screen.

Afraid to let go. Afraid to stay.

Wondering how much wing is enough to fly.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

Go top