They sit by the window watching the snowflakes land on the large pile which was once luscious, green grass.

The trees remain bald and skinny with no leaves.

Nonetheless, a few are salvaged, barely hanging onto the single tree branch.

Their green glows dull with white holes spotting its surface.

The sky fades slowly, and in the horizon the orange shines its brightest hue.

Despite the waning landscape, two butterflies remain perched on the branch.

 

 

 

You see, a storm came last night and tugged the last flowers from their roots.

Now, they lie on the perfectly white rug with their long roots.

The brown dirt stains the perfect snow; their roots coil and make ugly dents.

The butterflies perch arched; they’re the prettiest things for miles in this small, rural town.

Their wings reflect turquoise shades, and boy do they shine!

The seasons have passed, but they linger behind.

No, they don’t migrate to Mexico like their brothers and sisters.

And inside, the story’s written with the same ending.

 

 

Workers rush from room to room.

They’re all trying to do what they haven’t done for the past weeks.

For some, it’s just that one article they haven’t “gotten” to that needs polishing.

Those two “butterfly watchers”, though; they sit still, watching.

A little behind their coworkers, let’s just say that.

Their palms perch perfectly on the side of their face, so much that the palm slips.

Lost eyes circle and follow their flights.

Tick tock, the office clock keeps running.

Eventually, people begin staring.

I mean why wouldn’t they?

It’s ridiculous.

 

 

 

They’re still by their computers, but of course their eyes are glued onto the dirty stained window.

Their coworkers sigh knowingly and resign, placing their hats on their heads and scarves on their necks.

Weren’t they always like this?

No, they used to have more purpose.

But one day, they came through the office doorway with a funny look.

It doesn’t matter; no one seems to care.

And, neither do the watchers themselves care.

 

 

 

Just then, the last coworkers slam the front doors shut.

Finally, the two “watchers” turn and smile pleasantly at each other.

They don’t meet eye to eye though.

It’s a mechanical motion.

Even with all its pleasantness, the smile spells “false”.

It doesn’t matter; it’s too late.

 

 

It always is.

Only a scarlet red flush remains, and the sun sinks into darkness.