Roadside Butterfly

A flash of color tumbling through the air
graceful even in the wake of the farm truck
doing fifty-five on a country road;
The driver gave the runner space, but could not avoid the butterfly;
now fluttering unevenly to the pavement in the turbid after-current.

I thought she was dead, struck by the windshield,
but her wings and body and tiny antennae were intact;
I could not bear to see the delicate wings
crushed into the rough black pavement
as though her brief and beautiful life did not matter.

I bent to pick her up, gently clasping her wings together.
Standing there on the side of the road,
I silently admired the intricate patterns of color and spots,
the rolled-up tongue for sipping nectar,
her fuzzy brown body and spindly legs.

Her wings opened suddenly, orange and vibrant,
and I discovered that she was yet alive;
Perching unsteadily, and maybe invisibly damaged.
Beyond hope? I could not be sure.
I wondered if she could taste the salt on my sweaty hand.

Cupping her in my palm, helpless–
I walked into the ditch, the tangle of weeds and poison ivy,
opened my hand around the Queen Anne’s lace,
setting her down in the center, to rest awhile, or maybe to die
next to the blue chicory along the fence row.

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Late Evening

I noticed the individual
drops falling from
the sky as I emerged
into the rainy evening,
and the improbable
beauty of tiny new leaves
burdened with water droplets
hopeful and shining canopies
stretching into spaces
between the concrete
as I wandered through
the darkened parking deck
searching–
in vain–
for my car.

Remembering Mary Oliver

I ran early this evening
Thinking of her, and missing her voice
Shadows growing long,
then fading into twilight–
In January you can see
A long way through the woods
Stripped of leaves and other finery
Earth’s bones, contour and shape
Truth without adornment
Like her words, precise and spare.

Pausing at the lake, daylight fading
Two ducks silhouetted against
The orange-stained mirror
I watch, find the words and continue on—
Moon rising now through the trees
Casting a silvery light on my path
Up ahead, pale reflection on Sycamore Creek
I hear splashing below the bridge
And realize that it is always there
But I did not hear it until nightfall.

Climbing now, I pass the red oak
Two years since her proud limbs reached skyward
I grieved the loss each time I passed
But today I see her
Sinking gently into Earth’s embrace
Sharing energy and minerals and earthy rot
Housing wild creatures as always
Feeding hungry young seedlings—
Nurturing tomorrow’s forests with unbridled joy
She is here; her words are everywhere.

Umstead Lake at sunset. Two ducks in the middle.

Thank you, Mary Oliver. Rest in peace.

Seeking

0000rowboat on the sea

Rowboat On The Dark Sea (artist unknown)

Would you believe me, if I told you
I am a rudderless boat
adrift beneath the starry sky?

Sometimes gliding with apparent purpose,
then spiraling aimlessly in a gyre,
or caught in tangles of Sargassum

Motionless, while schools of fish
swim by as though with singular ambition–
I float alone, without direction.

 

Would you believe me if I told you
my hull was not built for such voyages–
too small, too fragile, too easily damaged,

Not meant for vast oceans or rogue waves
battered, creaking and straining,
green water pulsing through cracks

Bailing feverishly, waiting with dread,
certain the next wave will splinter me–
drowning seems inevitable, if not immediate.

 

Would you believe me if I told you
I am pushed by unseen currents,
and my course cannot be charted

Strong winds cast my hull west,
against the lee shore, pounding surf,
fog blurring the horizon, where sky meets sea,

Beating to windward slow and vexing
dogged effort with little headway–
wind and waves conspiring against me

 

Would you believe me, if I told you
that some are meant to wander
and I am never truly lost

When I lie on the rough wooden boards, caked with salt
and look up at the star-filled sky,
my heart knows the course I should be sailing.

For now I must be content to sail on through the night,
change my course with the shifting gale,
and see what the sunrise brings.

MST Sunday

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The day is just awakening,
Feet falling, easy rhythm
Broken only by the short step or lengthened stride
To avoid an errant root or rock,
Breathing regular, though not effortless,
Engulfed in wild silence—
The kind that allows space for a mind to wander,
Not the “silence” of white noise machines
Designed to dull our reality.

This silence is full and round,
Leaves blowing, water lapping at the lake’s edge,
Bickering redheaded woodpeckers—this year’s brood, no doubt,
The crickets, of course, plus whatever brethren
Make all those different sounds, which I do not know.
Weird snorts and screeches from deer
That I have to see first to confirm they are really deer
Squirrels’ light patter, lighter still for the fence lizards
Sometimes only movement, not sound, draws my eye.

The wild silence of a very alive forest
Is the kind where I can hear myself think.

Tuesday reflection

Tuesday after work. I am
camping with Stephen at Shinleaf,
on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail,
after he has spent much of his day
slowly moving himself and many
surprising (to him) pounds of gear from
Bayleaf Church Road, about
ten miles away. Tomorrow,
he will walk another thirteen to
Rolling View and await pickup
after I finish work. An experiment
in carrying everything you need and living simply.

He is tired and sore, but clearly pleased with
his accomplishment. Yet he’s puzzled to also
feel somewhat disappointed, and I see it
gnawing at him. I let him talk
but don’t say much, allowing him
space to think more and return later.

As for me–I sit outdoors at 8:45 pm
watching the waning sunlight,
an early bedtime whispering the
sweet promise of rest before the
sun rises on Wednesday. And I can
tell you that I feel content
with this ordinary
yet extraordinary
evening.

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Summer plans

This summer will be how I always intended to live,
Mapped out neatly in my notebook next to the scribbled to-do lists,
Allowing me to breathe in the sauntering, unstructured days of summer.
Filled with possibility and unmarred by the daily grind.

I shall go to bed early and sleep until I am rested.
I’ll nurture my family with meals we make together
With the summer bounty from local farms.
We’ll eat and laugh around our table, sharing our joys and woes
With space for deeper conversations, too.

I shall ride my bike to work, and give away things I no longer need;
Walk gently on the Earth, with pauses for wonder.
Appreciating my abundance with austerity and generosity,
Recalling that time is the only currency worth seeking.

My neglected summer garden
Will be raucous and beautiful, yet unsullied by weeds–
For I will work in my garden for an hour each day.
[I shall call it “happy hour.” Or maybe “half hour.”]

I will read a new book every week, and they will all be worthy
With thoughtful words, fiery ideas, and deeper meanings.
Words will flow from my own fingertips, and they will be precise and uncluttered,
Arranged with perfect balance and cadence and clarity.

I shall run any day that I wish, and soak in the company of friends
Like roots pull nourishment from the soil, and we will linger
Over jokes and earnest conversations with steaming cups of coffee
In the humid early mornings, just after sunrise.

I will seek joy and deliver it with intention to others,
Open my heart, to allow love to wash away the shattered bits
Love without expectation or fear for tomorrow’s woes,
Like drinking deeply from a clear mountain stream
Remembering only the cold wetness the moment it touches my lips.

Then I will awaken and notice the goldenrod flowering
The last brood of Carolina wrens has fledged,
And the sticky days of August are upon us.
Summer days stole by on silent yet swift feet,
Gathering into weeks that were surprisingly busy
And months that disappeared without a trace.

I’ll shake my head and laugh at my Quixotic optimism,
Roll my eyes at my silly, navel-gazing privilege
That enables such dreams and noble intentions.
Nonetheless, I’ll treasure those found moments, and promise myself

That next summer will be different.

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