In Autumn, so their earth won’t soak up Winter’s snow-melt then freeze then crack, I empty and turn over the flower crocks and line them up along the sunny garden wall.
In Winter, the blue, green, red, yellow, crocks, wear caps of snow. I dream of basil, oregano, and the geraniums they’ll please me with. A simple, earthly love affair, with herbs and flowers.
This Spring, to prep them with soil, I turn over the crocks, carefully, aware of black widow spider hiding places, and there, a surprise sucks my breath away, my heart quivers to see this.
A large blue and black and orange Butterfly, motionless. I put my finger under it. Lift it to the air. Motionless. Dead. Seeking safe haven, Caterpillar crawled in through the small drainage hole of the overturned crock, morphed into the Pupa stage, and then hatched. Spreading out and pumping up its beautiful wings, surely, Butterfly stared up at the light of the small round whole.
Like staring at the full moon as an opening to another world? Or reaching a door to the outside when the house is afire. But the door is locked. Never to know the balance of wings on wind, nor the nectar of love with flowers. Starving, dehydrated, Butterfly died.
In Autumn, I’ll empty the crocks but will stand them upright, open to sky, kisses of rain, snow. In Winter, I’ll stare out the window and when I see them, blue, green, red, yellow, dreaming of basil, oregano, geraniums and love, I’ll remember that even with wings, not every dream flies.