Chasing butterflies in the garden


Oh, to be blissfully away in the small, lush garden of my daydream cottage,
barefoot, feeling the occasional ant exploring unchartered territory in its search for the way home;
baresouled, by and for myself, with no audience to impede my natural self;
soaking up the May sun,
looking up at the bright blue sky through the emerald leaves of a tall oak tree,
tree sparrows tantalizingly trilling about the freedom of discovering yourself in the embrace of a white cotton candy cloud,
bees busily buzzing about tasting the sweet nectar of the cornflowers, the poppies, and the chrysanthemums,
crickets cheerfully chirping about the happiness of simply being,
there, in the present,
with no wandering thought that there’s no unchanging the past,
nor having certainty in the future.

Oh, to feel the dainty flutter of a butterfly’s wings
cease as it lands on your rosy cheek,
then suddenly dancing away in the warm spring breeze,
filling you with the childlike wonder you haven’t felt in many a year,
making you sprint to your feet
and chase it with the wild wind in your tousled curls,
letting the boisterous laughter reaching your upturned lips
join the harmony of trills, hums, chirps, and the murmur of the nearby spring.

Oh, to be chasing butterflies in the garden,
to be a novice at life’s symphonies and requiems,
just now coming to know the first,
and never the latter.

Oh, to be chasing butterflies in the garden…

– Patricia



Bright red poppies, liberation,

Golden fields, murmurous springs,

Barefoot, daydreaming, reflection,

Books to read, moments to seize.

By myself, freedom, green forests,

Hiking, whispers in the wind,

Dark soils, teal skies, music,

Endless possibilities.


Riding on the water’s surface,

Touching blades of wild grass,

Sunset, sunrise—peachy, dreamlike,

Wildflowers and soft green moss.

Lively cities, friendly people:

Sonder. Sun. And wanderlust.

Crickets chirping and birds trilling,

Golden sand and azure seas…

This is August. This is home.


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Oh, May has been so good to me:
The sun, the freedom, serenity,
The rain, the fresh smell of the soil,
The chirping birds… Yet mortal coil,
Yet there was turmoil, endless pain,
Yet down fell tears on my face…
Though May was wonderful, it hurt
To experience it as myself.

The vibrant cyan sky filled my eyes
With gleams of hope and paradise…
The moments when I stopped, breathed in
Brought mindfulness. Escape from me.
But I am constant in my pain:
I feel relief, then I regain
The burdens I carry. Linden May…
It hurt to experience it as myself.

– Patricia

Winter Peace

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On a peaceful winter morning,
While all nature was asleep,
Winter fairies found their calling
In the mountains with steep peaks,
With the never-ending forests:
Trees so lofty, scent so green,
Where the tired soul could find rest
And lay down to breathe and dream.

Snowflakes listened to their calling
And descended upon Earth,
Graceful butterflies resembling,
Having just known their sweet birth.
On the fir trees still grew green moss,
Entangled with the bright white
Of the soft blanket which covered
All of nature, day and night.

On a peaceful winter morning,
While silence governed the land,
Winter fairies found their calling,
One which promised freedom that lasts.
For the soul yearning for quiet,
This magical, hidden world
Was all that they could desire…
Peace, contentment, freedom, hope…

– Patricia

Music in December

A normal girl is what I am,
Riding the tram on a winter day.
I’m not more than and not less than,
I simply am. But I can dream.

I put my headphones in and then,
Imagining another world,
I let the music in and understand
Quite everything. It all makes sense.

How I can fly, explore the sky,
Travel to faraway places, be free.
My spirit soars and knows all truth,
And my heart flutters, feeling joy.

And in that moment, music is
An open door towards the universe,
With all its magic and its mysteries,
Warming my soul for all eternity.

A normal girl is what I am,
But music sets my soul on fire.
So many worlds rest deep within…
And I ride the tram in December.

– Patricia

Puppet on a String

Strings. Pulling her which way He wants,
She is His puppet on a string.
She breathes only when He’s around,
For He’s her Master—that’s the thing.

He gave her colour, shape, and life,
She dances to His music. She
Is just a piece of wood otherwise,
Lifeless—awaiting to be pulled.

The strings He made cut deep, deep wounds,
Leaving their mark on her, so that
She always knows she cannot choose
To free herself. He owns her. Scars.

She’s there to please Him, otherwise
She’s put away in her own box,
The cage she only knows to despise,
Awaiting His life-giving touch.

He gave her meaning, gave her life,
Yet she has never learned to breathe,
She suffocates under His touch,
She is alive, yet hasn’t lived.

She rots away inside her box,
Not daring to leave it behind,
For she can’t move, her many scars
Remind her who keeps her alive.

Until one day, when she decides
That death is better than that hell.
She grabs the scissors, cuts the strings
And then bids everything farewell.

She waits for darkness to arrive,
The clock is ticking. Nothing comes.
The pain of a thousand sharp knives
She had imagined is nowhere near.

Doubting that she is truly free,
She slowly moves her hands and legs
And they obey her thoughts right then,
She doesn’t have to wait or beg.

She slowly stands up and falls down,
Losing her balance. One more time.
She stumbles, falls, gets up again
And learns to walk all by herself.

She slowly leaves her cage behind,
Tripping and stumbling, falling down,
But she’s determined: she won’t stay,
She’ll live to see another dawn.

As time goes by, she learns to run,
To jump, to spin, to sprint, to dance.
She starts to wonder how she could
Believe that he’d given her strength.

Painting her colours how she likes,
She is her own. And no one else
Can ever tell her otherwise.
She knows her truth. She loves herself.

– Patricia

Childhood Home and Summer Nights

I hear the crickets chirp and I
Know that I’m home again.
Cycling on peaceful hills—so green—
I remember who I am.

I feel the moment—future, past
Don’t cross my mind at all.
I live in the now, so free and calm,
Nature—so beautiful.

The bright full moon governs the night,
Shining so close to me
Against the darkness of the sky;
I thus now feel at ease.

The scent of freshly scythed grass
Gives me forgotten peace
And I can feel that once again
I’ve known eternal bliss.

The night—so quiet and so warm—
Promises freedom, dance.
I had forgotten what was home
And now I have returned.

I feel alive and know myself,
Here on the peaceful hills.
This is the world I’ve always loved,
The world of real dreams.

– Patricia