The Butterfly & the Photographer & Other Poems

The photographer is in the final poem. First, we have the winds, which have been delicious lately in the heat of late summer. Then there is my view out across the yard and across at the valley as I was watering my little new bed of salvias and vincas. The flowers and water between them have certainly been an encouragement for the butterflies, who have been many this year!

I tend to assume that my readers know this, but perhaps it’s worth explaining that, indeed, my poetry (with rare exceptions) is not fictional. The incident with the butterfly was a delightful interaction that occurred several days ago. And the accompanying photographs are the ones I made at that time. The wild things here seem much less furtive and more confident than anywhere else I’ve lived.

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August Winds

Sing, O spirits of the wind, that dance
Below the rain-scraped mountainsides and up,
Yes, upward to the sun. Go singing still
In treble whispers while the summer stays
Its time; go lingering along the gold
Of August days, their silver nights. Your voice
Is sweetest melody; your kindly touch
Is greeting with a friend who’s dear; your scent
Is graced with perfume of the trees that nod
Their summer blooms along your merry paths.
Sing lightly, an antiphony will swell
From valley and from cliff, for many winds
Take flight to make your choir of song,
While sound of rain falls with the afternoon,
Its deep voice overwhelming all until
The sun breaks once again, your touch once more
Is gentle with the smile of the sun.
And when day turns to night with serenade
You bring at purple twilight, linger yet
With me; we’ll whisper here beneath the stars.

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Lines Written While Watering the Flowers

Sunlight on bare skin
Like some almighty benediction
From an ancient god,
Fragile butterflies slipping in and out
Among the oleander branches,
Brief comment of a nearby raven,
Clouds rising in the heat haze
Behind, above the mountains,
While the air moves like a living thing
At once frolicsome and sincere,
And far off I see crowns of pink flowers
On two distant cacti.

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The Butterfly and the Photographer

So while I watched a sulphur butterfly
You quickly fluttered past me, caught my eye,
And stopped upon a leaf and watched me there.
You stretched your wings into the waiting air,
And closed them, opened them again to show
Their sumptuous design--above, below--
The brushwork in dark brown, the peacock spots
In ivory on tawny ground, the dots
Of cream or primrose, umber scalloped edge
With accent of a pale sienna, wedge
Of van Dyke at the upper wingtip’s verge
And veins of gold lest all the patterns merge
Across the iridescent scales. I propped
My Nikon up and clicked; I slowly dropped
All pretence of just looking, shuffled close
And closer, camera still rattling, rose
To see you at your level on the leaf,
And still you stayed to my surprise, relief.
You did not fly away in nervous haste
As though pursued by me or rather chased
By that strange Thing in red and black that clicked
In quick succession as your wings were flicked
Into the light or shade. Instead you gazed;
I saw your eyes turn earnestly, unfazed
But rather pleased (or so it seemed) to pose
For someone who admired your grace and chose
To put it on the record. Yes, I think
You loved the company; no need to prink
Then either, just to look your finest, hold
Your wings outspread in all their shimmered gold
And face the camera. And then a dash
Because the sulphur butterfly had splashed
Its chartreuse wings into the space. Ah no,
You were not willing to allow its slow
And vivid wings invade your bush. You chased
The sulphur clean away in fearsome haste,
And I lost sight of you. I felt bereft
Of further pictures since you left
In such a tiff. At once I felt you brush
My elbow; I looked down to see the rush
And lift of tawny wings. You had returned
To watch me once again. I think I earned
Your confidence; I made fine portraits of you
There that sunny afternoon, when just we two
(You would not let the sulphur there make three)
Enjoyed the sun and breeze, photography,
And specially your gold and umber wings.
Go out, be blessed, you and all little things
That live with us and watch us, sun or shade,
Though very few demand their portraits made.