butterfly - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
If ever there was magic powder, it was that iridescent glow of the butterfly wings. It casts a spell on these eyes so that my soul is brought into the moment with a fullness. I feel as if my thoughts were more tuned in somehow, as if I were a radio that's found a frequency that is both more calm and more intense all at once. That instant of seeing those petal-wings brings a serenity that holds me as if in some universal camera flash.
The butterfly, flower of the sky, dances by in a whirl of colour. She is born to fly from her cocoon, to bring a beauty so delicate into the warming summer air. As sweet as the nectar she seeks, she raises her wings as an organic clock, each flutter a moment until her time of rest.
The butterfly is a rose on a beach; she is the life amid so much sky. She swims into the air, letting it eddy beneath her wings, curling in the sweetest of swirls. I watch her pass, fast despite her erratic path, choosing her direction by a silent serenade of the blooms.
More fragile than the glass that is blown for the throngs of tourists and just as gaily coloured, the butterfly alights softly on the sooty oil drum. I wonder if its feet are dirty; how would you ever tell? I wonder what it eats here in this city slum; where does it find sweet nectar? Part of me wants to scoop it up but my hands are rough from so many burns and scars. If I killed such a beautiful thing how could I ever live with myself? It makes we wonder if somewhere in the she smog and concrete is a garden hidden behind walls, some oasis of beauty this spark of the creator can find but I cannot.
The butterfly beats its wings up and down so sharply it looks like it's under remote control, as if a tiny electrical current opens and shuts those vivid yellow blades. With legs that somehow stick, it holds the stem of the flower that is already passed its peak, petals blackened at the edges and curling. Perhaps it already knows the summer is fast becoming fall, that soon the leaves will tumble and the nights close in, chilly and short. I hope not. I hope it lives everyday with never a thought for the future or past. There is as much beauty in that as in its sunny hue.
Diana would describe butterflies as the flowers of the air. Both arrive just for the warm weather, both are transient, both are delicate. To her the gaily painted wings were like falling petals in the breeze, tremulous, fragile.
The painted-lady perched on the cornflower drinking deeply of the nectar; it's probosis extended like a delicate black straw. Together they swayed in the mid-July breeze and their motion was quite hypnotic to Myka. The combination of the intense blue florets and light that shone through the wings like the stained glass in church reminded her of her sister's wedding. That day her friends had released blue and anise swallowtails into the vestry and she held a bouquet of cornflowers. How she wished that evocation could really whisk her back there, so she could hug her sister again, tell her that she loved her and that she was sorry for putting gum in her hair when she was six; that it was just so hard when she started dating and had less time for her. She shifted her weight to one side and the loose rubble that had been the school shifted too. Choking dust swirled into the dry air, returning Myka to her reality, where the butterflies and the cornflowers went unnoticed by everyone.
The butterfly fluttered up and down, it's wings beating the summer air. It alighted upon a flower and folded it's wings neatly upward. It was as beautiful as painted silk and as delicate as rice paper.
Chrysalis changing, metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly, safely in silken cocoon, dangling like a pea pod, swinging, twirling in the breeze, hanging by a silky thread, butterfly emerges, crumpled wings straighten, flutter away, sucking up nectar with proboscis like a great drinking straw that uncurls. Wings gaily coloured, yellow as lemon sherbet, scarlet as a fiery sunset, contrast with sable edges, long antennae, large compound eyes.
The butterflies were like fairies, flitting from flower to flower, Amy thought. But little did she know that they were fairies-- fairies in bug-suits trying not to be seen.
The feeble, dying butterfly flapped around in the palm of his hand. He'd found it caught in a spiderweb, flapping frantically as a spider rapidly approaches. But the damage had been done to it's wings, and Mark was starting to wonder whether it would've been more humane to let the spider poison it.
The skewered beauty lay belly-up on the card. Mary-Ann thought it was repulsive,, but Rebecca revelled in catching and collecting the innocent butterflies.
The brightly coloured blue butterflies were quite the sight to be seen. They flittered from vase-shaped flower to flower, pausing to drink the sweet nectar inside.
Wings canary yellow, yellow as a buttercup, a spot as red as holly berries, scarlet, electric blue wings with sable edges, dusky sunset orange with white polka dots.