Mornings have always been the hardest,
waking without the anticipation of you.
With you, each orange glow sunrise
was equal to a seasons change.
Waking to your emerald promise
was like rising to perpetual spring.
Each new rose washed dawn of you
was my soul's renewal.
The nights haven't been any easier.
The jade moon just hasn't hung
in my ebony sky quite the same.
I know it misses you as much as I do.
For you loved the night most of all.
Midnight's mist of cool silence fell upon you
like a healing breath of solace and quiet comfort.
The silver promise of the stars
caressed your scars, and for a while,
in the unfolding of darkness, you knew peace.
God how I miss the way you filled
my nights with lyric and rhyme.
The way you made the music resonate off the stars
and sprinkle down on me like fairy dust,
playing my heartstrings with the same slender,
stroking, fingers that enchanted the piano keys.
And oh how I miss your smoky voice.
The way you rocked me gently to sleep with lullabies of poetry,
tucking me in beneath silk sheets of cadenced content.
That's what I miss the most of all,
the contentment that came from your company.
The completion I found as a woman,
in just listening to you breathe as you slept.
The seasons have come and gone now for
almost two full cycles since you took merciful flight.
Summer's magenta heat must eventually give way
to fall's crisp anticipation and glorious color.
Indian summer's golden grace will be ushered in
soon on a yellow harvest moon.
Autumns arrival is promised, and only nature
is this constant and keeps all her promises.
Summer's heat hangs on almost angrily,
not yet ready to give up her fiery reign.
Still, even she cannot deny the subtle signs.
The Oak tree's leaves have already begun to rust.
Autumn sends her invitation of change, delivered on
velvet winged messengers of things to come.
I have quietly watched them for several weeks now.
The Monarchs have begun their whispered migration.
Their sudden, abundant, orange presence
is nature's promise of the next season's gifts.
As I sit here on my porch of morning,
watching the marigold sun crest the horizon,
I ache in the knowing confess that I
have not kept my butterfly promises.
And I also know it is not a coincidence
that all my soul searching of late should coincide
with the Monarch's journey towards unending warmth.
Like so many times before, when I am the most lost,
you send me a sign, offer me a path to follow.
I no longer question this magic, nor look for the logic.
For love needs no reason, needs no logical explanations,
no need to ask the how or whys of your little miracles.
Like how on this morn, my flower beds are lifting with winged fluttering.
As I sat there among the Zinnia's color burst rainbow,
I was almost expecting this, expecting you.
So when that one Monarch floated towards me,
then touched down on the rim of my mug ...
I smiled and then held my breath,
trying to hold on to this moment of you.
As it rested there, inhaling the raspberry nectar,
opening and closing its fragile wings
in perfect orchestrated slow motion,
I could hear your whispers upon the wind.
Reminding me of what I have lost sight of ...
I have been holding my breath for far too long now.
"Butterflies are meant to be free"
As I raised the mug up, the morn's humid breeze
lifted your messenger, returning it to its journey of instinct.
And I know once again ... you have given me destination.
*for DeVante', with my unending love,
and my return to keeping our butterfly promises.
Feels like Im dancin with truth and wisdom
Precious rhythm you are my guide
These days are sacred, my heart is humble
Oh warrior show me thy light
[This message has been edited by Janet Marie (edited 08-16-2001).]