November Butterflies
The tinkling of delicate windchimes dangling from my front porch are an auditory companion to the invisible breeze that brushes my cheeks. I marvel at the fuchsia roses with their indigo auras that still bloom on the opposite side of the white porch rail. The vivid green of new leaves contrast with the dried, shriveled remnants that dangle from nearby goldenrod.
Fresh white towels dance to the music of the wind chimes, and I wonder what the goldfish in the pond will do when winter comes. I suppose they’ll nestle down in the mirky depths of the pond, lower their heart rates, and wait out nature’s long slumber.
But nature isn’t ready to sleep on this second day of November in Northwest Georgia. The rosemary is still adorned with delicate lavender petticoat blossoms, and the crown beard insists upon wearing its small white blooms. Even an orange butterfly slowly flutters its wings, sipping the nectar from a rose.
The hickory trees are nearly naked, and the oak has only committed to changing two thirds of her clothing from vibrant green to brownish orange.
On the porch, the temperature is perfect for my short sleeves, but I’m grateful for long pants as a Japanese lady beetle toddles across my knee. Dancing in the warm sunlight, a yellow butterfly moves from fuchsia roses to salmon ones.
Creation seems indecisive as summer’s remnants vacillate: “Shall I stay or shall I go? Do I fight for the pulsing flow of life or go gently into that good night of winter?”
Brown leaves on green grass and drooping burnt leaves on a gasping tomato plant, adorned with a single small orange-green tomato, say the inevitable is coming.
But then the sun emerges from behind the cotton ball clouds and buzzards circle in the blue, sunning their wings. Even with their foreboding message, nature seems to say, “Wait… wait… stay in this moment of life, color and beauty.”
Winter shall come soon enough. But today, bask in the sun, let butterflies rejoice in their last dances of the year. Sit in the stillness only broken by the hum of the neighbor’s air-conditioning unit and the low moo of old McDonald’s cow.
The orange butterfly circles in front of me, landing on a fuchsia rose, slurping up the life from its indigo aura and then moving along to a lavender rosemary flower. The orange butterfly and its flitting yellow neighbor seem to say:
“Rejoice! Rejoice in the day that is! Let autumn breezes kiss your face. Let your eyes feast upon the colors.
Breathe in the peace of this moment.
And, let the morrow take care of itself.”
