Dear garden

Pierrette woke up early one morning and realized she had wings.

The last thing she recalled was her plump body mounted on stubby legs which carried her along her cabbage leaf all day long. Steadily munching, crunching those gorgeous savory green leaves. There was a whole garden of them, enough for her and all her siblings, a seemingly never-ending supply of sustenance.

But today, she felt different. She had wings, not two but four, she could see them slowly fluttering behind her.

She was draped in a milky white cloak.

What happened last night? She’d fallen asleep feeling full and perhaps a little sleepier than usual. Then she must have slumbered deeply.

And today, she felt agile and unfettered.

No longer leaf-bound.

She smelled the flowers through her antennae, sipped delectable nectar as if through a straw from bright yellow blooms, rode the breeze flawlessly.

Her perspective was somehow different too. There was her dear garden of cabbage and sprouts, far down below her.But she was no longer hungry.

She felt transformed, these wings could take her places.

She wanted to explore, travel, take a voyage. She could go anywhere.

And then, over on the stone wall, a familiar shape,

white wings like hers, a seductive scent which drew her closer.

“Perhaps a travel companion,” she thought.