The Butterfly Migrations

The Butterfly Migrations

Imagine a place where sun shines,

exactly as is best for

you.

That is home.

There are more places

you must be, at times

and,

often, without perfect

weather to feel,

there can be what is

merely tolerable,

enough to fill a hungry day.

Sun arrives,

sun goes away.

I see you, today, at roadside,

overdressed for this

season, one better suited to others,

which

you have found yourself

standing in.

Out of your

one place,

the home, perhaps, that

turned inhospitable,

metamorphosis made you

a figure draped by shadow.

The chrysalis you crawled in

lies elsewhere, empty, hollow.

In a

real but magic-seeming place,

sturdy leaves and warm pods

swell,

promises for

for those who need

a drop of

what is wasted as surfeit

by someone

other.

There is a make-do balance made

when God seems not to bother.

You have fluttered,

other places, other times,

can describe

a different spot

with depth enough

as might be

done

by those who lived

but there,

alone.

Ten thousand years of from and back

we travellers have known.