A few years ago, one person, simply by being themselves, opened my eyes to a lifelong habit and made me think. I started a poem that year; I finished it this month.

Butterflies became the subject of myths long ago, and science and technology haven’t ended mankind’s fascination with them.

Months have passed since I enjoyed the atmosphere of a coffeehouse, but I remember those occasions well. My memories have blended with a chapter on coffee in A History of the World in 6 Glasses; the result is poetry.

While the national conventions this month may focus the attention of many Americans on November’s election, my thoughts are already on Inauguration Day. I like to ponder what poets have said on such occasions in the past and to wonder: What would I say?

Several decades ago I made most of my clothes, and in the process I gathered a substantial collection of buttons. Long after the clothes were out of style, the extra buttons stayed with me.

You’re invited to join me on an afternoon walk late in January this year. If the surroundings seem strange for a midwinter day, you probably haven’t lived on the east edge of the Rockies in Colorado.

February is a good time for sorting through and throwing out and for facing the last traces of Christmas hurriedly hidden in some obscure corner. The process inevitably brings a surprise or two.

When I threw out my old calendar, the rows of pictures on the back reminded me of a quilt. My imagination took off and didn’t stop until I had written a poem about a “Calendar Quilt.”

The holiday season encourages us to recall the highlights of the past year, but I’m thinking of a time much farther back when my younger daughter, now the CEO of a tech startup, spent hours in a room dedicated to playtime.