A tree trunk in wet marsh,
Intimate again with its own leaves,
Moves to nourishing decay.
Lichens and moss feed here,
Raising personal forms
As scenes on insect roads.
Above the changing trunk
A smoke of butterflies
Mingles with resurrecting steam.
Something of the tree has stopped,
Has let the body down of its own weight,
Has simply let go.
And some of us who watch,
Who feel the common motion,
Are saddened by the stopping.
And some of us who feel,
Who watch the common changes,
Are gladdened by the feeding.
And some will ponder butterflies
And find unchanging hope
In hovering evanescence.