Monarchs left over a week ago.
Still, I see them everywhere–
the way you see loved ones
who are long gone–a leaf that
suddenly comes to life, a flutter
among the marigolds.
How many ways are there to say
“they have flown,” before we
admit they are gone.
According to weather reports
the leading edge is already south
of Tulsa, 500,000 strong,
flying at 2,500 feet, just ahead
of a cold front, winging toward
the Texas funnel into Mexico.
I finger a dry chrysalis, chitin thin,
ghost-like in its emptiness, a relic
from another life. See, this is how
the escape was made–here is the slit
where the wings pushed through.
This is how the temple is rent;
this is how you merge with the air,
how the earth falls away and
you become one with the sky.
The poet’s newest book is Wings or Does the Caterpillar Dream of Flight.
