Student-faculty basketball game today. Now, you may think, “How fun,” but this is serious business at my middle school. We (the faculty) have only one loss in the last 15 years, and we do not like to lose. So, I dragged my aging butt out there to play my usual tenacious defense (I’m short – it’s my specialty to steal), and, lo and behold, I find myself wide open for a three-pointer at the top of the key – and I sink it! Now, these old bones gracefully swishing a three-pointer against very athletic, very tall teenagers is poetry indeed. (We won, by the way – 30-26.)
Today’s excerpt is from a poem I worked on revising today. I have been working on it for quite some time; it’s a long poem in sections loosely dealing with the idea of monarch butterflies, and if you read here with any regularity, you know that writing long is not my forte. This is part of the third section, which is the most straightforward of the sections that are drafted so far.
As I pull the dried blooms from
the hibiscus on the deck, butterflies
land in the high bushes. Small furry
bellies. Cobalt panes of blue amidst
the orange. They watch me pluck
tissue-thin cocoons, dead-heading,
forced molting to create something
new. A cycle their wings recognize.