Poetry

And now they are joining me for yoga

I saw you in that traditional place –

the bathtub –

small and crawling,

trying ever more feverishly to cling to the sides.

But every eight steps saw you slip and fall;

I could bear to watch it no more.

 

With shaking hands I picked you up,

placed you on the windowsill

and said farewell.

 

I thought no more of you

until a cousin

hitched a ride on my leg.

It was hot and the ground warm,

so I suppose I was the logical choice.

 

Transportation in a breeze.

 

And more recently, another friend

of yours

joined in with my morning yoga;

my back arched in cobra position

and they splayed out fully.

I wondered who would win.

 

Sensing my surprise, they scurried away.

 

I thought that was the end of the visits,

but in writing this,

approval had to be met,

so on the wind came another

ready

to notate the ink

with swift legs.

Poetry

Heat Haze

In the heat of summer,

when our throats

are thirsty, eyes unfocused,

sweat clinging to every part,

we hear the hum, loud as an engine

by our ear. It is the fly,

humble, persistent and even

happy in a group.

We often think of flies as dirty

deeply unclean

and unnecessary things,

disregarding

their role in decomposition.

From decomposition

comes nourishment

for the ground, the spark of growth

and life.

Perhaps that is why the fly

makes such a to-do

about its buzz.

Poetry

Vibrant wings

The butterfly beat

its wings lethargically as it rested

on the soil, cold winds turning

it into ice. Find a place, anywhere,

safe, to hibernate, it told itself.

Warm, secure, away from jaws

of those normally waiting to pluck

it from the sky.

That’s

how I came to have these wings

on my back. The butterfly found me,

and I accepted it.