more oft these days I pray to the gods of smaller
things.
appreciation. no cousin kin of want.
my cloud hand shadows the curving shell of a
snail in the bush beside my knee-high adjoining
bench. is that a resistible kindness?
a small gesture by any measure.
how many raise clammer to violence when found
on a garden perch. crush is so easy for us. myself,
I find delight in another life close at hand.
what matter the size of the spoon?
root for the traverse of a shimmering thread
across their green & earthen universe.
no fear. what fills the space? welcome home.
and sometimes, yes, leave nature to the
footsteps familiar to its own history. some you
save. some you let be.
from a balcony. below a single white butterfly.
roam the yard once, maybe twice, then
out-of-sight. repeating day then another day.
and only one, always seen alone. never two.
is it the same white butterfly? yet over many
days it makes no easy sense. I don’t know.
today a white butterfly is across the street.
it circumnavigates that garden then proceeds
south down the street.
some answers are the common denominators.
here. this thread needs no further story.
sunlight seems different now. unafraid?
we wear masks to hide our faces in this
breeze. even a glance now is courage kin.
maybe we are wrong. maybe we’re meant
to share this given world. maybe we’re not
the topmost top? unwelcome news?
neighbors, companions, have we room that way?
notice how language is changing in our mouths.
there. have you ever touched that word that way
before?
how is it that in my head thoughts underthought
keeps turning into kangaroo?
I’m unsure what isn’t a poem anymore.
-
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wordswerepoemsfirst.com 
Nature in all of it forms draws me in and fascinates me. But, I have to admit, your last line made me laugh out loud and then nod in total agreement.
Elizabeth
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com
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thanks Elizabeth. think I left this poem in the pot too long. better in head than print. but yea, that last line says a lot for me and how I want to be more and more.
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You know, when I was teaching the little guys in the inner city some of them thought it so much fun to run around squishing bugs that were just out on sidewalks and places like that. I would try to explain it isn’t just about killing one bug, but they are only one little blip. If everyone went out looking to crush whatever they could our world would be so desolate.
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thanks for the visit and comment. I think about in terms (not really a trade, but…) of kindness. let more kindness come into the world and maybe someday a really big foot will see and step over you! does the pandemic relate?
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I think the pandemic happened for a reason. Unfortunately the people who should slow down and review our world are also the ones that want to go back to what was “normal”
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“I’m unsure what isn’t a poem anymore.”
You’ve been making me think about this for some time now, Neil. I have NEVER been one to say that being a “poet” has nothing to do with writing poets, but I have never believed that writing things with line breaks make one a poet, either. You are making me see more clearly that it is a way of seeing and communicating that way of seeing (yep – I still believe that poetry is about communication – and you do that so well).
Grammarly apparently thinks I am a “stuffed shirt” – whatever.
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a “stuffed shirt”. I am much amused. but here by any name, I love what comes from you Ren. I’ll say “poem”, yes, but to call myself “poet”, well, what does that mean? a writer, I’m happy with that, less pretense when self-applied. maybe I’ll say my own post in that direction. admittedly not so well read as might be, but I love language, I love words and the life they have of their own. your visit moves me Ren. I am a grateful me.
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