Butterfly’s Trail

A windsong makes an invitation,

so the grasses may cry.

*

Landscape closer to Winter

yet green leaves push through soft Earth.

My father does not appear in these fresh shoots

or within the red bird that has been following me.

*

He’s not here.

 *

Gracious man I called papa is in the lessons and emotions

held within the scenery of living.

*

He is the awe that my grief can be so almighty

and still the pinecone can ask to be named.

 *

There was no expectation to find dad on the trail.

I hadn’t realized I was looking.

*

Within sight are tiny white flowers

Yellow, and purple blooms.

Unfurling ferns and scents that change

with more or less warmth from the sun.

*

It is 9,000 feet closer to the sky from the Earth

surrounded by Pine, Fir, and Aspen

that my lungs find the support they need to miss the one I am still learning is absent.

*

Full embodied missing is my spirit practice.

How to allow everything to be enough?

*

Simple request made more possible by listening

to daylight upon skin, and seeing one’s heart in all things.

*

This search is not because I am lost.

*

I look because it feels holy.