butterfly

I spent too much time

glancing outside.

Observing other gardens,

watching their foliage thicken,

their plants bearing fruit,

and their plants thriving.

With time I could’ve spent

tending to my own,

I watched.

Glared in envy, even.

The longer I stared,

the looser the grip on my shovel became.

The harder I wished,

the more my own garden groaned.

And the more I lingered,

the more time I wasted.

I wanted the butterflies that wandered onto their flowers.

I wanted the foliage that their beautiful plants had.

I wanted the fruits that they bore.

I wanted, I longed.

But in my aspiration for more,

I lost sight of why I started.

I lost joy in tilling my own soil.

I had forgotten how it felt

to gingerly pluck the dead leaves from my own plants.

I had monotonously sprinkled water over my own garden,

wishing for better.

Wishing I had more.

It was there that I decided

there was no use in looking outside.

I shut the windows,

sealed the doors.

And tended

to my own garden.

Months had passed since that day.

I had waited for months

with no results,

no seen rewards of fruit

or foliage.

But today,

I was met with a butterfly

who wandered onto my garden.

As if it were begging for me

to write this poem.