LINDA H.Y. HEGLAND

         Stars like Dandelion Seeds, Scatter and Fall

  I once saw a star tumble from the sky.
  It sighed and sizzled as it kissed
  The earth’s thin nimbus,
  Then consumed itself within its own passion.

  I once saw a small bird tumble from the sky.
  The breathy hand of a passing breeze caught it
  And perched it on a branch.

  I once saw a butterfly emerge from its cocoon – 
  Over hours and hours – 
  Its trembling body fragile and tender,
  Its wings shatter-able like stained glass.
  It dried and grew in substance and tenacity.
  Wings of glass, heart of oak.
  It flew away, now shivering with yearning,
  Fields of colour spread before it. 

  I once saw, on a sheer rock face – 
  Granite and scree – 
  A crippled and warped tree.
  It grew from a thumb of soil,
  Drank from the rain in the wind,
  Adored the sun in its own broken way.
  It grew because it didn’t know how not to,
  Its seed an augury of purpose.

  I once saw a bee dance, and heard prairie grass sing.