Butterflies
We are all born caterpillars
fuzzy and crawling, amused
by the sky and her shape-shifters:
first a dragon, then an angel.
We flail our limbs testing
their stretch and retraction
grasping on to grass to see it bend
before resting in its vastness.
We grow longer with appetites
fiending like a wood chipper,
consuming anything thrown in-
this is how we learn.
We notice our bodies changing.
Other urges transforming purpose
like leaflets sprouting
from fuzzy plant stems.
We yearn comfort, wrapped up
warm in the arms of a lover-
sex is a real mirage.
We evolve our matured perception.
We realize the sky is our fate,
deciding with precise manufacturing
to be squiggling worms
or to manifest into butterflies.
Midwest Man
Oil seeps beneath my fingernails
is just the grease and dirt mixture
reappearing at work regardless
of scrubbings or pickings.
Wafting scents of nighttime flowers
is just the basement laundry
drying as soiled shorts and shirts
sauna; sweating away impurities.
Confederate flags on porches
is justification more tax money
should be spent on educating children,
but who will rip the gun from the hand
who’s finger spoons the trigger?
No doubt I’m a Midwest man
with sore hands, burning shoulders
and busted knees; with one wife,
one dog, one cat, one paycheck,
one body, one life, and many hopes.
At dusk, we share the same moon,
waning in her pink wisps. The humid air
moistening our fingernails. A gravid pause,
a deep breath, an absolute mortality.
Winding the Clock
Muscles are mere accessories
if never practiced outside the gym.
A young stick-figured cellist plucking
notes will open the crusted pickle jar
before the pickle-fingered bodybuilder
who poses for shots on the bench-press
as oil seeps on down his skin.
Brains are mere muscles accessible
if practiced outside of comfort.
An old gear consistently oiled
ticks with certainty for time.
The digital clock clicks sparking
between uncertain wires –
shed us of need to wind.
–Maxwell Redder
