Even as a butterfly’s
spread wings, a lake so still,
so clear the image
of the hill
beyond,
you strained to trace
the seam of which is which,
their meeting place,
so the ripple
when it happened
(and it always had to happen)
was a breath of wind
made visible.
Now time’s what you’ve
less of and a friend’s
in hospital you move
closer to the gospel
that night
might be best time
to contemplate the light.
You count your blessings.
The evening beats its low tattoo.
You hold your breath. You breathe
again. Every year has two
beginnings.