Mercy Tolentino Steenwyk

“Through the glass, I see
bright, bright red bougainvillas,
a cluster, a burst of light
defining the green, the prickly
brown twigs. Side by side,
along trees, along yuccas,
along the pointed leaves.
There are rocks, gathered,
grass growing in between.

The warmth of day came
and went. The birds pierced
the silence of this bright light.
And the wind blew swiftly
to sway the stately oak from afar.
The butterflies came fleeting by
in a rush, an urgency so divine
spreading the secret of time.

Of the hour of being.

The time is 1:16 in the afternoon,
the brightest hour of the day.
And I call on my Creator
to inquire about this day.
It’s a gift of time, He says.
Of bright lights. Of colors
that burst. Of butterflies
fleeting by.

Of the hour of being.”