Last Thoughts
Another porch morning.
With cups of black tea.
My daughter had turned tall,
And carried my granddaughter inside her,
And my grandson in her arms.
With only her tone,
She maneuvered our memories,
And rested her head on my knee,
In the shared space of our minds,
Because she couldn't do it physically.
"Truth," she mused in her on-my-knee way,
"Is a butterfly.
We both know Dad pins it down,
And labels it, and thinks he possesses it,
But only has a dead thing.
I follow truth through a field
All afternoon, skipping over puddles,
And hopping stone to stone,
Calling sing-song after it,
Take me, truth, on an adventure.
You lie on the grass so still,
That the breeze is bewildered,
And the butterfly just comes,
She rests on you and dwells with you
A moment, then flies off.
Which of us, do you think,
Understands more fully,
The beauty of the butterfly
I who chase without touching,
Or you who are touched without chasing?"
The morning sipped away to the heavy lethargy
Of bags at the bottom of glass mugs,
Waiting for water to awaken them at second cup,
And a hummingbird flew into view,
Not a butterfly but close enough.
My daughter held out a still hand,
Closed her eyes and became my silence.
I got up and prepared to follow the bird,
Wherever it flew.
We laughed about it later.
The day was warm,
Grandson and grandad washed the car,
Making rainbow arcs and bubbles.
While we made iced tea with the old bags,
And fresh ones and fresh lemons.
I realized something had bothered me,
Her description of her dad.
I easily forgave it because she was young,
Taking her turn with the butterfly metaphor,
But I had to say something.
"The funny thing about your father,"
I mused in my watching-from-the-window way,
"Is he is such a likable lepidopterist,
He smiles like that in his certainty,
I'm glad you have his smile."
Tea and time and thoughts drained away,
The girl was born and the boy turned tall,
And at a gas bar in Phoenix my daughter learned
Compassion and why I love my husband.
And then I died, all things complete.
With cups of black tea.
My daughter had turned tall,
And carried my granddaughter inside her,
And my grandson in her arms.
With only her tone,
She maneuvered our memories,
And rested her head on my knee,
In the shared space of our minds,
Because she couldn't do it physically.
"Truth," she mused in her on-my-knee way,
"Is a butterfly.
We both know Dad pins it down,
And labels it, and thinks he possesses it,
But only has a dead thing.
I follow truth through a field
All afternoon, skipping over puddles,
And hopping stone to stone,
Calling sing-song after it,
Take me, truth, on an adventure.
You lie on the grass so still,
That the breeze is bewildered,
And the butterfly just comes,
She rests on you and dwells with you
A moment, then flies off.
Which of us, do you think,
Understands more fully,
The beauty of the butterfly
I who chase without touching,
Or you who are touched without chasing?"
The morning sipped away to the heavy lethargy
Of bags at the bottom of glass mugs,
Waiting for water to awaken them at second cup,
And a hummingbird flew into view,
Not a butterfly but close enough.
My daughter held out a still hand,
Closed her eyes and became my silence.
I got up and prepared to follow the bird,
Wherever it flew.
We laughed about it later.
The day was warm,
Grandson and grandad washed the car,
Making rainbow arcs and bubbles.
While we made iced tea with the old bags,
And fresh ones and fresh lemons.
I realized something had bothered me,
Her description of her dad.
I easily forgave it because she was young,
Taking her turn with the butterfly metaphor,
But I had to say something.
"The funny thing about your father,"
I mused in my watching-from-the-window way,
"Is he is such a likable lepidopterist,
He smiles like that in his certainty,
I'm glad you have his smile."
Tea and time and thoughts drained away,
The girl was born and the boy turned tall,
And at a gas bar in Phoenix my daughter learned
Compassion and why I love my husband.
And then I died, all things complete.