There's a rotting log in my backyard where a toddler used to sit.
It was sturdy back then, surrounded by tall grass and wheat.
The mountain view swept over her like a passing wind
and drew her in like a gentle hand tugging on a string.
The butterflies would land on her log and rest,
their wings exhausted from fluttering for so long,
and then take to a branch from a tree or a strand of grass.
The birds would land on her log and make their call,
waiting for their flock to hear them and reply.
We're sorry, but the person you're trying to reach is not available.
At the tone, please record your message.
When you have finished recording, you may hang up
or press one for more options.
The wall phone began collecting dust
and there the log was, ready for her to sit and think,
ready for the butterflies to sleep and the birds to weep.
She was ready for just about anything,
but at this moment of silence and discomfort,
she watched the little bird perched on the log
from behind the unbreakable glass door
and she couldn’t help but wonder
where she was and if the birds sang there.
The log is rotten now and the little toddler rests on the stairs,
looking at the mountainscape as it brushes over her
and pulls her back into its whispering embrace.
Where she went, she’ll never understand
because it’s not a place that you can go and then come back.
It’s the only place where the butterflies don’t land
and if the butterflies don’t flutter and the birds don’t sing,
then no matter how sturdy the log,
she won’t sit there.