a little butterfly
From the Sierra…
good news, a breathtaking abundance of wild flowers, now at its height in this late starting season. Just returned from two nights and three days in the Carson Pass area of the El Dorado National Forest, a few miles into the wilderness, off Hwy 88.
The flowers were stunning, walking through garden after garden of color beyond words; and at both of the peaks we managed to scramble, just below 10,000 ft., we were met by the joyous dancing of high mountain butterflies.
under an arc of illumined star dust
--the Milky Way
flows over our heads, tossed
and turned by night winds.
Well, it was light,
before the sun, the sky clear
So I went to the lake
pushed the last of the ice
to rest against snow covered out crops
rising a thousand feet
the rushed and dimpled surface
now coming, as I,
under the early reach of the sun,
in witness—a kind word
for this kind feeling,
not to explain or capture,
but to respond in kind
to the love
All throughout the day and the night,
its mark, the silent stretch of granite
into the waiting sky.
Marmots appear with the first fall of sunlight,
young and old, each atop
a single of the scattered rocks,
each alone, to sit and listen.
A place of ancient prayers, a time
of refuge—wishes are sung here, hearts
offered over the lake in the many tongues
found in the winds—whispers, here received.
And as the birds, two of them, call out
three times, then turn to take their leave,
I turn to my bowed shadow to vow
not to go back to sleep.
Back in the low-lands, again…
Becoming not so certain
at all, of most things, any
thing, tentative steps become
the certainty, a certain
kind of dance, light, attentive,
wondering where the music
falling itself off the tongue
will lead, wondering whose heart
directs the next joyous step.