At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.
Sure mariposa is a lovely word,
and psyche packs provocative surprise,
but I declare the English name’s absurd
that calls fantastic insects butterflies.
How do we from the dairy designate
a creature so refined it sips the bloom
and flits on air in faerie featherweight?
What message from that name should we assume?
It’s made of wings like petals in the air.
Kathy's niece took these pictures of boomers the other night west of Edmonton. Kathy and I talked about what we saw in the clouds. There is a lot in there and yesterday, as I walked, I understood clouds meaning something different during different seasons of life.
The spring of childhood,
Clouds were homes
My imagined friends
Came to life…
A touch of impromptu catnip from a morning drive. . .
oh tree of burnished gold
your leaves shalt not wither
before illuminating my soul
“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”
Have YOU read with a child recently? Try this fun and funny book of poems…
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