In a secret place among the rocks by Ann Howells

              a mound of butterflies stunned

by sudden chill huddle, wings misted damp.

Moss carpets humus-rich forest floors,

vast miniature forests—tiny lives lived out

among virgin timber barely one-inch tall.

Creeper vine and honeysuckle, sun-seekers,

stretch along telephone lines; fern unfurls

between water smoothed stones.

I’d forgotten this, and little locusts springing

like dandelions, topiary kudzu-shapes,

trees so tall, everything green, green, green.

Old settlements and waters labeled long ago

speak the Piscataway tongue: Nanjemoy,

Accokeek, Potomac, Patuxent, Chesapeake.

I remember though the big white house

at the center of the world, kettle simmering,                                   

doors flung wide. 

Ann Howells has edited Illya’s Honey for sixteen years, recently taking it digital: www.IllyasHoney.com and alternating issues with a new co-editor. If interested, check her Amazon page for further information.