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.