Her dark figure teeters on broken ground.

Barely balanced on a wavering ankle.

Weighted by a mountainous middle, swathed in a garment too great for her delicate frame.

Her downcast face hangs from a burdened neck.

Hair rises like a panicked horse’s head.

Arms extend like a bird attempting flight.

Yet a tiny butterfly hints at another way.

And palms press together in prayer within the flow of orange silk below.

From folded fans to gossamer gauze, she is held by what she once feared to trust.

At last, she understands what the butterfly always knew.