Metaphor in the Gray Season of Rain

author’s note:

We seem to be metaphor-making machines.


METAPHOR IN THE GRAY SEASON OF RAIN

Yes, I’m caught in the flood
of a cold gray season of rain.
But please, don’t worry about me:

Though sad, I’m not drowning—
I now know how to swim in these waters.
I know I can reach the distant shore.

Yes, I sometimes become tired
in the effort
and feel I might sink.
But then I lie all the way back
and spread my arms out wide
and give myself up
to the hard wash of rain.
Painful to open so boldly
but this way, I’m able to stay afloat.

As you can see
I’ve learned from metaphor
how to survive times such as these.
So please
don’t grieve my grieving.

But if you feel you must
say something
I’ll give you this hint:
I become even more buoyant
when somebody praises my buoyancy.

Butterfly Soul: poems of death & grief & joy
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Invisible Bridge

author’s note:

Realism.


THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

A wise one once told me
I’d eventually find a magical world
by walking down this path.

So I set off with great hope, vowing never to give up.

But after many years
filled with many thrilling trials
today, I encountered an obstacle
seemingly insurmountable:

I found myself at the edge of a steep cliff
with a deep dark chasm below.

I could see the path continued
on the far side of the gap—
the trail spiraled up a mountainside.
But how could I possibly cross?
I’d been told
not to deviate, but to stay on this track
and meet its challenges.
Had I been tricked?

Then a low voice unknown to me
echoed up from the depths of the canyon:

“The higher the cost, the greater the gift,”
  the voice murmured.
"Try and you will find
  a foot bridge before you—
  its invisible ropes
  and invisible boards
  will support your weight.
  To reach your magical place
  you must cross this magical bridge.”

Though I demanded more information
my words fell into
a silent void.

The epitaphs of those who test reality
often tell us:
“He died a foolish death.”
But after walking this path for so long
I preferred to die like a fool rather than go back, feeling defeated.

So I stuck out my foot
and searched around with my toes
until I felt something solid—
something like a board—
then I extended my hand
until I touched an unseen rope.

I’m not sure how much time has passed
since I took that first step.
I think now I must be at least halfway across.
But maybe not.
Unfortunately, curdles of fog came in
and hid everything—including the mountain.
Cloud has crept all the way up to my armpits—
maybe it’ll swallow me whole.
How long must this test go on!
I can’t stop my sensible knees from shaking—
they say to me:

Any moment you could slip.
Any moment you could trip.
Any moment you could fall and be lost forever.

But though I can’t make peace with my knees
I can still make peace in my head.
I’ve now decided
to love my decision—
I will, even if I fall—
all the way down
I will praise myself
for being willing to risk everything
on a magical trek of discovery.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

A Paradox of Size

author’s note:

Still shrinking.


A PARADOX OF SIZE

One day I told a wise tree:
“I sense I’m being driven from within
  but I can’t see what
  I am trying to accomplish.”

With a sigh, the tree then said:
“You can’t see because
  your deepest desire is buried so deep.

“Look down deep and you will see:

“That you want to cross over a threshold
  so you live in a mansion open to the sky.
  There, you can rise to your full height
  and squeeze rainwater from the clouds.

“But before you can cross
  you must first shrink yourself down
  because the door is small and low to the ground.”

“You mean, I must become less than I am?” I cried.

“No, you just need to realize
  your actual size.
  Like everyone else
  you’re really quite little.”

“But if that’s so
  how can I possibly reach the sky?”
  I whined.

“Because of a paradox,”
  the tree replied.
“As you deflate, you grow.
  Just like everybody else.

“A slow painful process, yes
  but without humility
  height and weight can be dangerous.
  You’ll be helping the whole world.”

As I left the tree then
I felt so foolish
but at least I’d shrunk a bit more.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

In a Field of Clover

author’s note:

If you can’t find a four-leaf clover, I say: just use a little tape.


IN A FIELD OF CLOVER

“Your body is a green field of clover.”

When I found that line recently
I cringed with embarrassment—
what a silly besotted troubadour!

But then I remembered
the meadow of clover
where we’d once laid down
to rest.

And then I wanted to unremember
and when I couldn’t
I decided to return to that clover field—
desperate for a way to resolve
the conflict in my head.

So Sunday morning I drove
along that isolated dirt road
until I found the field.
Then I stopped and wandered out to the spot
and laid down on my back.

Again I felt
the cushiony springs of green beneath me.
Again I felt
the bright fleecy clouds breezing above me.

And to my surprise
in short time
all the commotion inside died—
my head felt delightfully light.

But then suddenly
a tree branch at field’s edge
splintered the sun’s rays
and a prism fell right into my eye
and I began to cry.

But not like a child, no—
I wept like someone
who’s lived long enough
to have learned well enough
the value of the complicated relationships
we endure and enjoy
with the complicated people
who leap or creep into our lives
for reasons too complicated
to ever fully comprehend.

Yes, I’d often told myself about the value
but I’d never actually felt gratitude
until I put thought to rest
and allowed emotion to rule
in the naked quiet
of a meadow filled
with soft clover love
and love from a Sunday morning sun.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton