When snows first melt and the bits of green poke through, it is one of life's small miracles.
An infant cries for the first time in its mother's arms.
In that tiny distraught voice is a world of potential.
I sit on a park bench, pen in hand.
Children run by with butterfly nets, chasing a dozen floating monarchs through the grass as it begins to turn.
These are the images of our lives.
Under the pressure of the sun, uninterrupted, the rich greens fade to brown fade to dust.
The infant becomes a child, chasing butterflies.
Butterflies, left in a jar.
The children love them so.
They will nourish them.
Like the sun will nourish the grass around them.
I rise to go, thinking that perhaps a break is in order.