A leaf mimicking a butterfly,
A butterfly teasing the birds.
Age, old trees letting go
of what doesn’t work for them anymore.
Freedom to fly, and crumble to the ground,
When you can’t hold on at the end of your rope.
Tie a knot, find a way, or so they say,
Or let go and let God.
The creator drew the lines
And the edges where space meets time.
Time flies, and flees, gone before her time,
But what was, when was her time?
What matters is what was lived between those two dates,
The dash in between.
Fly away, little butterfly, your days are numbered,
But your colors, once brilliant,
Now fade,
And leave this world behind. Fly.
CSS 10.18.2021
Dear friends, I wrote this poem at the passing of Barbara Mead, a colleague who worked at my university for 55 years. I am also remembering family members who passed these last few years. On this weekend of All Saints, please feel free to remember a loved one below. God bless.
I really like that line, “the dash in between.” So sorry for your loss
Today in church, a man shared his testimony of being diagnosed with cancer, how that brought him nearer to God, and how he’s now healed. It made me think of my sister Angie - diagnosed too young at 44 - and died too young at 51 this summer. I couldnt stop the tears. My sister Debbie was diagnosed and died in 6 months, at age 29.
My father was diagnosed and died in 5 months, at age 59 - my age now. All died too young, lived with too little freedom and too many fears. I love and miss them all.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful poem, Christina. 💗