Small Things.

Early April, hot midday sun, I spy a Mourning Cloak butterfly darting over frozen Caspian Lake. The water has thawed blue holes in sporadic places around the shore, but the snow still crumbles into my boots as I follow the butterfly. The butterfly darts into a stand of cedars and disappears. On this afternoon, how lovely the lake lies, just me and the boarded-up summer cottages, the rusting can used for worms or smokes emerging from its wintering over beside a porch post. The ice spreads out in varying ribbons of pale blue and pearl.

On my back through town, my boot avoids the first of miniature grape hyacinths, tiny buds and furled leaves emerging from gravel.

This spring day, Van Gogh is on my mind, his immense talent, troubled mind, these words: “Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together. And great things are not something accidental, but must certainly be willed.”


4 thoughts on “Small Things.

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