With every sigh
clear tears that shed,
run, skip, and fly,
above her head.
Like butterflies
with wings widespread,
they flutter high
carrying her dread.
They touch the sky,
kill her pain dead,
then float on by,
call joy instead.
As they all dry
new hopes are read,
she wipes her eyes,
held sadness fled.
Within her mind
a soft voice treads,
as an ally,
all problems shed.
A silent guide
no start or end,
always provides
bright paths ahead.
– Grace Y. Estevez – Reddy