White Butterflies and a Red Squirrel

 

 

Influences deserved

never arrive, and

the gift remains in the pocket

like chapstick on a cold day,

or as bits of sharpness to remind you

not to get too comfortable, complacent

or convinced of your rigorous calculations

when you calculate the sides of a square,

a triangle, an oracle reading.

 

People you thought would never go,

have gone, walked away

from sanity’s reach, most likely never to return.

Things you wish would have left years go, remain,

your days outstanding, tied to the

root-whip survival, lashing.

 

And there is more never expected –

a banquet of nourishing literature,

a husband still coalescing with brilliant light,

two children grown, kind and weaving,

and the animals, older, happy

watching the birdbath in the flush garden,

in a backyard that in the early morning

as you scan the interior and the perimeter,

you are sure that nothing could be more glorious,

pleasing, leaves you praising

for being allowed to witness such royalty.

 

God’s love heats up your pores,

fills your nostrils with green scents,

fills your ears with the chatter of communities –

sparrows, starlings, bumblebees, white butterflies

and the red squirrel. You are sure

such kneading, thinning-thickening harmony

is the natural state of being,

propelled to experience this nirvana, (spinning, spherical)

knowing tomorrow it won’t last, but also knowing

it will always last, existing, uncorrupted,

sealed, continuing in this moment, this morning,

this day, in this exact summer.

 

 

Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst

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First published in “Madness Muse Press” August 2020

Three Poems by Allison Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below: