Monday, July 29, 2019

a tiny blue butterfly

the blue fuse that drives the poem

who is within a butterfly?
what consciousness, what self?

I have sat at the foot of a great tulip poplar tree
and reached my soul to imagine 
how the world speaks to it,
and how it responds,

I regularly see bears,
 and they feel easier to grok,

just now a tiny light blue butterfly
visits my writing and my leg,
not once, not twice, but enough times
for me to actually photograph it,
and let it alter my consciousness,
so that it is the blue fuse that drives this poem,

it actually just then returned to my clasped fingers,
I have watched it dance in the air over the rushing creek,
why it returns to me is beyond my ken,

yet I love to realize
how much self seems to be
in the littlest of these,

I like the nudge to notice each tune
played within the forests of the Smokies.

by Henry H. Walker
July 24, ‘19

No comments: