The Woodworker

A butterfly atop White Heather. Photo by me. A brave butterfly flew into my wood shop today and swooped down to my shoulder to say, “Good sir, good sir can you build me a meadow?” Who me, a meadow? What do I know of fashioning raw earth and seed? My tools shape the wood into long pine tables, into fine oak desks. How can I plane and chisel, saw and hammer as Mother Nature intended a meadow to be. “Mister Butterfly, I am not fit to fashion a meadow for you. There must be another, some other to do this work, this magic for you?” The fellow, he flew off without so much as a word. Perturbed, I continued my work through lunch, through dinner 'till darkness enveloped my lantern. When finally I was done, my fingers raw, eyelids heavy, I had formed and wrought an exact replica of the butterfly I had earlier met. Wiping my brow, I brushed dust aside and placed it on my shelf next to my other whimsical carvings of those who had come before. My favorites - the gray wolfs, great white bears, and colossal whales. I shake my head and utter, “Now the brave butterfly set’s out to build his meadow?” Leaving my shop, I watch a million butterfly’s strong rise up from the land by moonlight, traversing warm currents of air to fly south in search of meadows I'm sure. Eyes vacant, I sit by and watch wondering, too, how I would carve them all.