The Green will come back to us
it has to,
the passing of its shade
simply a setting sun.
Nothing lasts forever now
how could it,
life carves the wonder
deep in the bark and root.
So don’t mourn the leaves
it’s not water they need
and my sweet Loves
time goes on.
The Green will come back to us.
Turn and face the sun my friend
the crisp fall hues will wilt and fade –
to hide, to heal, then grow again
my endless faith
where it’s always been.
Listen to the song bird’s ode
there is a wisdom in its truth –
to pass, to feel, so gently known
a thousand things
yet you’re never alone.
So give in to this gold still here
note the honey in its passing –
to say, to deal, in no despair
for colors change
yet never there:
no not this.
“How does one become a butterfly? she asked. You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar” – Anonymous
Two wings and all the soft wisdoms
needed to weave eternal grace and
every blooming tranquility. How true
and how precious the butterfly: to
place those kisses on our open palms.
Silken bodies in their immortality,
stolen from the dreams we hand
them, to deliver to the fairies and
pixies. Our curious couriers, so
quaint in their regal spring flights.
In the quiet moments. The rising
mornings. Their silhouettes dance
on the window blinds. I trace their
journeys in notebooks and canvas,
they are truly all we will ever need:
on our open palms.