the flutter of the white winged moths to street lights made a snowfall in July, perhaps their natural predators had been damaged in the chemical spray tests.
To my child's eye they were a delight, an awe, a beauty. I heard the adults talk about tree leaf damage. I loved the trees. But I loved the once in a lifetime flutter of those white angel winged petals of snow, a blizzard in July's dark humidity.
I knew then what I know now, Nature's fecundity cannot be stopped, though it can rechannel. Our natural predators now? The morphs and the hybrids? Within our own psyche and without, these predators do battle with our natural protectors of our personal fecundity, our helix of creativity, our lushness even in barren landscapes, including those damaged by chemical tests and faulty logic, or a mouthpiece severed from the heart.
As the heart bridges the head, speech and speed with grounding, moving continuity, find petals in a bottle of fragrance, a cup of tea, the wind playing leaves like a xylophone.
Our heart's butterfly migrations take us home, we leave again to explore, home again, leaving to explore. Petals of rhythm, heartbeat braille, samba fire, milonga melt, skinflesh drumtalk, again and again we home to the light in any humid darkness.
As we create pathways through this funny time, it is up to us and our imaginations, it is up to us. Flap away ...
Painting: Petals Lura Astor
