“But these are flowers that fly and all but sing…” — Robert Frost
I often catch the movement
above me as I walk along
the garden’s edge, and I know,
if I am patient, one will alight
near enough to see. I thought
the cold winds from a few days
past had called and lifted them
on a current further south, but
these little shadows danced
around my head, so I stilled
myself and waited, kneeling
down under the nearest
branch. She came, settled
on a purple bloom, and we
enjoyed a little breeze, the nip
of cool, the high sun, and the joy
of being still.
—C.L. Fisher, September 2020
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Poetic Meanderings 