Morning Rooster, Butterfly

I rested it on the arm of the swing. Sadly, I realized that we had all grown too far from our roots, with very little chance of reconciliation. There were only three visits by me after that one, each shorter than the last. The most recent visit was in 2000, when my husband Neal and I found the house padlocked. After some detective work, we discovered Lizzie was 120 miles away in Ashland, with one of her daughters. She had fallen, broken a hip, and needed someone to be with her. I felt as if an era had fallen with her. I selfishly wanted Lizzie, who is now 88, to live in that shack forever. Looking up at the hills surrounding the tiny rundown farm, I wondered if I had the stamina to climb one of them for the sake of old times. Just for an instant I also wondered what might have happened to Albert's still, but in the next decided it didn't really matter. The Kentucky experiences will forever be alive in my heart. I'll just leave it all there. Morning Rooster, Butterfly In the season just before dawn, A century turns inside its cocoon. A man prays himself back to sleep Before stepping out onto the cold floor Of morning. The rooster is clucking about And misses the moment Sunlight spreads along the horizon As he kicks dust into the air Where it will lift high into the afternoon And tumble into a butterfly Of cold and alabaster. —Norman Minnick 18 ...