It is always
Quite peculiar to me
That in the spring
We must first destroy
Before we can bring new
Life to the light.
The mighty butterfly bush
Must first be hobbled
Before its May burst
Fragrant flowers of early
Summer. Cut back of
All the previous year’s
Ambition. Laid waste to
Stump and seemingly left
For dead. Yet, from
Every pore does pour a
Bursting of harnessed
Sunshine that sets out to
Entwine its frothy
Flowers up and out to
The sky. An offering
For the Father. (And the
Butterflies.)
Peaceful, the soils of winter
Frozen in time and distracted
From the ambitions of summer
Suddenly disturbed! Torn
Apart foot by foot. Every
Living thing destroyed to make
Way the people’s plan for the
Land. Focused fruits of
Labor, water, soil and toil.
Different traditions, each follow-
ing the Master, The Sun.
Timed only by its rising
Desire to burn existence into
Being. To breed green life to
Sustain the Diviner.
