It is good to remember that there are seasons in which the butterfly seems to disappear.
Leaves wither, the sere ground catches the last of the roses like a cold uncle at the wedding; ice and snow drive into the ground. Then when we think we can’t wait another minute, mud oozes up, and from its dank surprise, fragile shoots of green. If we think of the butterfly at all in these cold months – and mostly, we don’t – it is as a vacancy in a bleak visual landscape, a joy whose name we have quite forgotten. READ MORE