Fleeting Butterfly

Sunset gold
alights on a flower.

She flaps once
then opens
in soft triangle
symmetry.

I know how brief
this rest is –
does she?

Startled,
she folds
into the air
in paper-thin
endangered
flight.

Once she is gone
I will see her again
in sunset’s gold

but our children –
they will never
imagine
such fire
on a wing.


I wrote this inspired by the Monarch Butterfly, a species under threat due to climate change, pesticides and logging of wintering grounds.

Many species are heading for extinction today and I wanted to capture the unique beauty of what may be lost from our world.

The Shape of Love

I do not know
the shape of love
though my life
has fit its form.

Not in a human shape
reflecting two faces –
a newborn.

Nor in a ring,
a golden, endless
circle infinite
in its holding.

In the first
yellow daffodils
after the
bones of winter
break

just as the sun hits

the moment of bloom
and the next moment
when their graceful
dancers’ heads
bow and drop

that describes
the shape of it

how we bloom and fall
in an endless, golden
circle.

Gift of Water

Here’s one I’m working on. I’m not sure I’m yet happy with it- maybe it rambles a little. But I felt like sharing it. Feel free to give your feedback- anything work for you? Anything didn’t? Thank you.

A little girl
curls her fist
around moonlight

her blonde hair
flashes against
midnight
brown
eyes
like lightning.

I think of her as
the first star
of rain
splashes the
pavement.

I hear the next
fall
and imagine
the sea
from where it came.

Moonlight
touches the waves
and appears
to be caught,
milky in dark water,

as if grace
could be held.

I wonder where
the girl is now,
what she holds
in her fist.

I make a cup
with my hands
and the rain
is cool in my palms.

Lightning
cuts through midnight
and an echo
brightens
the water.

I wait,
hands cupped
to catch a glimmer

of a gift from her
maybe moonlight,
maybe grace.

Autumn Girl

The woman in the
paper cup
looked up.

Her still brown
eye met mine
the other too
bright
gazed past
at the star
swirling night.

She smiled so I
whispered slow
‘who will I
be, where will I
go?’

My coffee cold
turned black to gold
to show a girl
under a bejeweled
tree with falling
red and amber leaves.

‘Not spring, where
new hope sings?’

One eye dimmed
her voice a
cosmic wind
‘In the endless flight
of a brilliant
leaf just before
winter’s night.’

‘Not summer in
radiant heat?’

‘No’ the light
in her eye
glinted deep.
‘But not in
winter’s sleep.’

With this thought
to keep, the coffee
took her black
and deep.

I left the cup
I had drunk too much.

Now I know
I’m falling slow
the afternoon light
kissing through trees
has never moved me
with such
beauty.