Fatigue [its own form of gravity]
will keep you low
to the ground
seeking food, shelter,
a place to pause
a wisp of an orange butterfly
drifts into a puddle of sun
the edge of its wings tattered
as if beaten atop dry grasses
or the jagged winds of an endless journey
it lingers in mid-air
then collapses on the blossom,
delicate black feet part compact petals
urgent as an infant
it suckles nectar from the heart
the waning scent of summer
drifts on the air
fanned by tattered wings
slowly rising and falling
to the pulse of another season
"Reflection is the liturgy of this landscape." Terry Tempest Williams
Posts
Just in Case
This blog was created to give my family and friends a bird's eye view of the journey I am on. If you read something that resonates with you and you'd like to plaster it on your refrigerator, bathroom mirror, cubicle wall or share it with someone you love, I am honored. If you read something that resonates with you and you pass it off as your own...shame on you.
Most everything on this blog was created from my heart and mind. If I share other writers' work, their name is credited.
Take good care and enjoy the gift of today.
Most everything on this blog was created from my heart and mind. If I share other writers' work, their name is credited.
Take good care and enjoy the gift of today.
3 comments:
Nice. I have been lost in the first five lines of this poem for the past week. Glad to know I'm not the only creature affected by the change of seasons.
Like Deb - I have stayed with these lines since you shared them monday night --- so lovely.....
that these words resonate in you warms my spirit...thank you
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