White Butterflies and a Red Squirrel
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
First published in “Madness Muse Press” August 2020
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: