A transfusion of yellow butterflies.
It fills the woods late in the afternoon.
I stretch out my arm to receive
and feel wings of silk in my bloodroad
veins. Survival. Gray areas of my seasons
line a path recently paved with white mud.
It sinks better drivers than I ever was.
And I wish I could play the chord
that the color bluegreen makes
just after it rains. Under live oak my legs
are jerking. They refuse to die. It rains again.
Me outstretched now, beaded wet,
out of breath.
See, I want to take something in
like sweet air. Like time.
L Ward Abel, Georgia, USA