The distance ‘tween was so fragile,
Shimmering silver shown its beauty,
Closing the space a trick so agile,
That calls aesthetic to a specific duty.
I called for years—a gentle bluff,
Considereing a butterfly in my hand,
Who found hours to be enough,
For destiny’s goals to understand.
Its mission completed in mere hours,
More time is not really required,
Nor muscular effort of great powers,
For insightful truth of what’s desired.
Mercy’s transcendence will my soul please,
With harmony among disparate spheres,
Swaying gently in the breeze,
A moment’s epiphany needs not years.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.