I dreamed that I was a butterfly,
floating with the pale gold sequins
spilled by the Locust tree, from a
cocoon I was set free. I woke to a
cool autumn morning the season
where all things change, many of
Mother Nature’s children drop their
cloaks returning to the earth from
which they came.
The nearby brook reveals a frozen
sparkling bank as ice crystals form
at its edge, the pure water will always
run free, of winter it has no dread.
Dreams floating within a liquid eye,
relives the wonders of spring that
brings the lovely butterfly.
Alas, we must wake to these frosty
days; wait for the early darkness, the
harvest moon shining down upon
mounds of freshly mowed hay. Masters
of cadence the landscape transforms,
winds leap and the maple trees weep,
soon Mother Nature will put her
children to sleep.
The language of Mother Nature is never
old and never new, as she speaks to the
world under a sky of blue. Then spring
will once again arrive, and the earth will
warm, the chicory plants will bloom; with
it, the butterfly will be released from its