From the picnic table rising
moving closer as they move
tiny kites
butter yellow fringed in black
jostling above wet sand
a lake breeze releasing them from their imperceptible grips
Four, five, and six lift and land
bump, glide
the briefest touch down
in an accident of togetherness
all of us butterflies, resilient companions
wrestlers of sudden winds
these ceaseless movements will someday
carry us away too
The woman in the water with her husband and son
turned back to shore just then
waste deep
as the butterflies rose in unison
a new formation
the woman looked up
her younger face like a child’s
relaxed wonderment exhaling delight
as they fluttered and bounced
shaping a gentle cloud
“Boy you sure did bring them with you!” she breathed.
“They were here, I replied. “Looks like they were feeding on the sand.”
“My mother just died,” she said suddenly
the way the newly stung by grief can
needing to air out their wounds
“I am so sorry,” I said, standing up to my thighs in the warm, summer water
my child fumbling with goggles
the business of childhood doesn’t include death until it does
“I thought it might be her, “ she smiled weakly.
“They are so beautiful,” I managed in reply, “they give you hope.”
“They certainly do.” she said.
Grief and hope
present on every table
waiting to be passed from one pair of hands to the next
Later, as the sun sunk low, I noticed she stood alone on the shore
eyes turned upward toward the hawks
Six, seven, and eight silently circling high above with their balcony view
watching over these dark woods
as the scenes of humanity play against
this opaque backdrop
the way beautiful things are always a little mysterious
out of reach
her expression faraway now
squinting toward the sky
working it out
searching for signs
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