The Woodworker

A brave butterfly
flew into my wood shop today
and swooped down to my shoulder
to say,
“Good sir, good sir
can you build me a meadow?”

Who me, a meadow?
What do I know of fashioning
raw earth and seed?
My tools shape the wood
into long pine tables,
into fine oak desks.
How can I plane and chisel,
saw and hammer
as Mother Nature intended
a meadow to be.

“Mister Butterfly,
I am not fit to fashion
a meadow for you.
There must be another,
some other to do this work,
this magic for you?”

The fellow, he flew off without
so much as a word.
Perturbed, I continued my work
through lunch, through dinner
'till darkness enveloped
my lantern.

When finally I was done,
my fingers raw,
eyelids heavy,
I had formed and wrought
an exact replica of the butterfly
I had earlier met.

Wiping my brow,
I brushed dust aside
and placed it on my shelf
next to my other whimsical carvings
of those who had come before.

My favorites
- the gray wolfs,
great white bears,
and colossal whales.

I shake my head and utter,
“Now the brave butterfly
set’s out to build
his meadow?”

Leaving my shop,
I watch
a million butterfly’s strong
rise up from the land
by moonlight,
traversing warm currents of air
to fly south
in search of meadows I'm sure.

Eyes vacant, I sit by
and watch
wondering, too,
how I would carve them all.