Migration

By Ken Woodley

A flutter of stained-glass

shares my path

through the last stand of this flowered field

in the final days of summer

and the gossamer of eternity

touches my sight 

like the whisper of angels.

A Monarch butterfly rises 

from the sweet swan song of nectar

among dying petals

and doesn’t stop ascending,

leaving the world, 

and this meadow we briefly shared,

behind.

We both grow smaller in the distance

of each other’s sight.

So fragile,

like a passing thought,

its migration bends toward the sky,

wings beating like a rapid heart,

higher and higher.

Grounded to earth,

I watch this splash of orange into blue

rippling through the sky

until I am left with the dust of its wings

upon my soul

as it disappears

into the brightness

of a sun-filled cloud.

I lose it now

as my eyes close in reflex

to the intensity of illumination,

listening still

to something spoken,

not left unsaid,

my feet barely touching the ground.

By Ken Woodley

A flutter of stained-glass
shares my path
through the last stand of this flowered field
in the final days of summer
and the gossamer of eternity
touches my sight
like the whisper of angels.
A Monarch butterfly rises
from the sweet swan song of nectar
among dying petals
and doesn’t stop ascending,
leaving the world,
and this meadow we briefly shared,
behind.
We both grow smaller in the distance
of each other’s sight.
So fragile,
like a passing thought,
its migration bends toward the sky,
wings beating like a rapid heart,
higher and higher.
Grounded to earth,
I watch this splash of orange into blue
rippling through the sky
until I am left with the dust of its wings
upon my soul
as it disappears
into the brightness
of a sun-filled cloud.
I lose it now
as my eyes close in reflex
to the intensity of illumination,
listening still
to something spoken,
not left unsaid,
my feet barely touching the ground.