The Truth About Tigers

I was up before the squirrels this morning,
before the sun, too.
On the front porch, all is quiet,
the way early mornings tend to be.

In cupped hands I catch a moment
that refuses to be counted,
steady enough to cradle,
gentle enough to release
what isn’t mine to keep.

A butterfly teases a northwest breeze,
a tethered promise of flannel and fleece.
Its wings catch the first light,
red softening to orange,
black to something
more than gray.

I think again about numbers—
about days, months, years—
each lived alone,
each carrying its own weight,
boxed inside borders we draw.

From a distance they slip into a current,
slow at first,
then less so.

The first squirrel gives in to gravity,
drops, gathers
acorns meant for the earth,
then retreats into late-summer leaves,
off to do whatever squirrels do.

This poem was first published at MasticadoresUSA. Thanks you, Barbara!