If I were a bluebell, or a tree in the mist . . . and I am, when we meet like this.
And when I’m ripe and ready to fall?
What need of fear on my way to the ground?
Indeed, what need, even now?
April 22, 2019
There appeared on the cold winter road a butterfly,
Which came to rest on my cane.
The cane, feeling her weight, sprouted leaves,
And the butterfly closed and opened her wings.
Now, I have seen many strange things on the road,
But never this! — only to discover my cane
Had put down roots. Grateful, yet cold, and amazed,
I pushed down upon the curved handle,
To steady myself and press on . . .
Only to find, the road was gone!
I was alone in the snow!
I was old! And peace descended on my soul.
And my soul was an old shoe
From a chance-forgotten, half-remembered
Where to go?
Where more beautiful than this world?
Recently Banned Literature, December 13, 2017