Wings of the Departed

They didn’t say goodbye that day just vanished in a softer way. No thunder cracked, no curtain fell, just silence where their laughter dwelled. But now I know where sorrow bends to where the sky and spirit blends, and butterflies, in colors wide, become the ones we lost inside. Their wings remember every name, each whispered prayer, each burning flame. They trace the air in loops of grace a fleeting glimpse, a loved one’s face. Heaven isn’t high above it breathes through wind and clings to love. It floats on wings that brush your skin then disappear like they’ve always been. You see them near the blooming tree, in quiet light where none should be. You feel them in that golden hush that makes the weeping world seem hushed. So let the tears fall if they must, but speak their name with hope, not dust. They’re butterflies now bright, unchained, with every ache and shadow drained. And when you ask if they’re still near, look not with eyes, but feel, and hear a gentle wingbeat through the air a love that left, but stays somewhere.