Words to Melody

Words to Melody

(“The Lord your God is in your midst—a warrior bringing victory. He will create calm with his love; he will rejoice over you with singing.” Zephaniah 3:17)

Sing me the lyrics I cannot remember. Sing me the song in the trees.
I need a lullaby, wind and violins to open the heavy coal mine that
occupies my soul.

The weight of the atmosphere keeps the leaves from whistling,
my heart from joining words to melody,
The weight of the atmosphere only reminds me of
what I cannot recall, what refuses to be resolved.

Sing me to life with wordless breath. The soundtrack of pain
is set so high the butterflies rise upon its updraft and escape across
the backyard fence. All I want is calm and rest,

And yet the silence infests me with neurons that buzz like
high voltage lines. My mind is crushed, the cranium shrunk by
abbreviated muscles and nerves. On the verge of leaving every
question behind, the pressure surges; a sound dull and slower than
my heartbeat; louder than the noonday sun.

Sing me to hope with your hands and face. Sing me to hope,
sit beside me in grace. Sing me to hope, cry with me. Sing me
to hope and remember our childhood joy and wonder.

All I remember are images, pixels scattered like jigsaw puzzles.
Sing me the words that patch the cracks, that take me into
magical forests, blue jay fun, dolphin joy and a sun that
revives-not-scorches.

Sing me the words on covered front porches where friends from
forever, renewed and amended, will remind me of the lyrics
that abandoned me here.

Got Some Good News

"Got Some Good News"

(“And He said to them, ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation.’” Mark 16:15)

I never collected them, but I knew people who did,
butterflies all classified by shapes and size and color.
I followed a friend who captured them, a borrowed net
and plastic jar with holes for my specimen to breathe.
I caught a few, counted the hues, iridescent absorption of
light and reflected blush of foliage, they fluttered a bit
and, unable to escape, usually drooped to the bottom of the jar,
still breathing I think.

It didn’t occur to me then, a child who would rather see any bug
up close, but I think they are more beautiful in their flights together.
(I think they call the swarms or rabbles, and neither fit the glory
of those that transform from caterpillar armies). But I enjoyed
microscopes
and looked up close to see feather legs and scaled wings.

But I think they are beautiful, butterflies in whirlwind bunches,
a Pollock mobile freeformed against the sky.

So, I set free my little detainee and went with the friend I followed
home
for peanut butter sandwiches. He showed me his pins and labels
and I finished my sandwich, walked home quickly to find the bush
where the butterflies filled every gap. Standing upon the blossoms’ center,
they were countless ribbons who waved the breezes with their wings
so I thought someone was surely on their way home.

I have not seen a butterfly collection in decades, dead, dry,
pinned against the faded cardboard. But I did enjoy, and would love
to see it again,
a wedding where, alive and waiting their cue,
dozens, gossamer and streaked, leapt upon the sky from the midst
of a decorated box at just the moment the attendants wiped the
last tear of joy from their eyes.