Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. I'm writing this column on a summer day when a hungry crowd of Monarch butterfly caterpillars are eating the upper leaves of the milkweed just outside my door in Nebraska, and my wife and I are joyful that they're getting a good start at life.
The following poem is from Stuart Kestenbaum's new book, “How to Start Over,” from Deerbrook Editions. He lives in Maine and is the state's Poet Laureate.
Joy
The asters shake from stem to flower waiting for the monarchs to alight.
Every butterfly knows that the end is different from the beginning
and that it is always a part of a longer story, in which we are always
transformed. When it's time to fly, you know how, just the way you knew
how to breathe, just the way the air knew to find its way into your lungs,
the way the geese know when to depart, the way their wings know how to
speak to the wind, a partnership of feather and glide, lifting into the blue dream.
Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. I'm writing this column on a summer day when a hungry crowd of Monarch butterfly caterpillars are eating the upper leaves of the milkweed just outside my door in Nebraska, and my wife and I are joyful that they're getting a good start at life.
The following poem is from Stuart Kestenbaum's new book, “How to Start Over,” from Deerbrook Editions. He lives in Maine and is the state's Poet Laureate.
Joy
The asters shake from stem to flower waiting for the monarchs to alight.
Every butterfly knows that the end is different from the beginning
and that it is always a part of a longer story, in which we are always
transformed. When it's time to fly, you know how, just the way you knew
how to breathe, just the way the air knew to find its way into your lungs,
the way the geese know when to depart, the way their wings know how to
speak to the wind, a partnership of feather and glide, lifting into the blue dream.