Butterfly Lilt

Small white butterflies 
like summer snowflakes 
fall and flutter;
I swerve to miss them
on bike 
on foot
in my car.
They are on their way, too,
but they will not stop.
No rest for the winged.
They float and flutter and fling themselves on flowers like desperate lovers;
weave between sycamores like playful youth,
lilt and jump as though on a string
until the fall comes and the wind changes direction,
carries them out of town
to make way for the season of moths--
when bikes rest
feet sink deep in boots
cars make warm caves
And butterflies sleep.


-Hope Horner, 2014
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote
Feel free to post, forward and share!
For offline publishing contact author on gmail at hopeh1122

In The Drift

She lies back

until
from shore her canoe looks empty,
like driftwood
winding and bobbing
in the wrinkled clear water.
She stares up
into the bold blue background,
admires scattered wisps of white cotton.
Her perfect peace
is interrupted only by the soft
bump
bump
bump
of the smooth gray rocks beneath her,
and the pointed
tap
tap
tap
of the determined woodpeckers above her.
She closes her eyes,
lifts her arms and places her hands
around the smooth wooden edges
of her sliver of hope.


Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 Follow on Twitter @HopeNote